The Land of Lost Content
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
Whenever I want to get noticed at parties, I take out the ear I carry around for such occasions and start chewing it.
from my diary, 23 August 2011
Feeling tremendously lost. Tired of moving, of living out each other’s pockets. Strange, because when I was small it was the only thing I lived for. I loved adventure and exploring, but now I want my own little Wendy house. A place to call my own because I’ve had a hundred places, but none of them were ever mine. Remembering the day I ran into myself etched on the pavement. Remembering how much joy tiny things like that can give. Like a letter from a dear friend I’ve never met. A letter that was written and put together with, maybe, a bit of fondness. The sort of fondness that seeps through the envelope and whittles its way past my little heart.
Not ready to go back to university. I am ready for the books, for the early morning lectures, for the blue of nitrile gloves against my pale skin. But I am not ready for the people, you see. Not ready for their smiles or their kisses against my cheeks. Not ready to blush or stutter my way through their welcome-backs or we’ve-missed-you-so-muches. Not ready for new flatmates and their nice-to-meet-yous and four different people in one space, like clashing spices thrown into the mixing pot and hoping for the best. Not ready to explain over and over that, no, I’m not mad, these are just things I have to do. Because no one understands, not really.
P.S. Maybe I’ve lost my way wading through the teardrops. Like a ship on a stormy sea and the captain’s gone missing. And, perhaps this is all a bit maudlin, but thank you all for your tiny bits of fondness.