Dried Out Thoughts

I’m sitting here tonight working on a revision of a story about my fear of turning into my mother.  Part of the story takes place five years ago, right after I’d gotten back from studying Spanish in Mexico for the summer, right after I’d broken up with my boyfriend of five years and the guy I started dating dumped me for his best friend’s girlfriend.  I dug out my old journal from that time, a blue notebook covered with irridescent sticker fish, their air bubbles floating on the cover right above their mouths, just out of their reach.  I read back through it, searching for details that might make my story a stronger one.  I found lines like this – “Is there a point to anything anymore?  I can only convince myself that there is for a short time, then I realize that there’s really not.  I’m tired of living waiting for what’s in the future.  I want to live for what there is right now.  Only – there is nothing.”

Oh, the angsty sentences of twenty-one.  As depressed and miserable as I was back then, it really was fun to feel like I was caught up in a spiral of fate, when every feeling felt was brand new.  It’s a strange thing when you have to squint to recognize yourself in your old thoughts.  Not bad, just strange.