It’s not a word I ever thought I’d use to describe myself — the puddle jumper and flower crown wearer, the poet and the dancer, the dreamer, the chronic hoper — but here we are. Cold hands, heavy heart. I’m not anxious; I’m sad. The achy kind of sad that eats away at you as it sets up home behind your ribcage.
Funny how we call it a cage; funny how we call it something that implies captivity. Isn’t it for protection? Or maybe more for restraint. Maybe more to hold ourselves back. That’s what I think now, anyways. Because it’s dangerous to feel so much, to let your heart roam free.
There’s not enough time in the day lately; I’d kill for an extra four hours. I think I’d use them to sit outside, in the sunshine, soaking up peace found in the brush of the wind in the leaves and the warmth of the sun and the sweet smell of grass and dirt and wildflowers.
Of course, I’d have to find some wildflowers. That’s an issue living in the city — everything is all gray pavement and green-blue glass, red bricks and the random bright splotch of graffiti. It’s beautiful, sure, but in an urban way that doesn’t whisper to my soul in the same reassuring way that the big open sky and never-ending fields of B-County do. The ocean (dirty as it is) creeping up to tickle your toes on the good days and crashing against the jetties in fury on the bad. The twisting backroads and the trees that reach up up up for the sky.
I know it will be better when I’m in my major-specific courses, when I don’t have to study so hard for the classes that try to choke me. When I’m in the courses that I enjoy (like children literature; sometimes I think about dropping out but thinking of that course alone helps me stay the course).
The AC in the apartment is broken, leaving the air feeling heavy and clingy. A little bit claustrophobia inducing.
The air outside isn’t much better — it’s thick, like swimming, but through humidity (and now I want to go swimming).
I’ve got a little fan that lives on my desk; usually I only turn it on when I’ve just come in from walking back, but Tasia doesn’t like it to be cold. Now it’s working over-time on high speed, trying to combat the stale air that’s settling. I probably ought to put in a work order, but it’s almost easier to just deal with it here rather than trying to talk to the people in the office.