Tell the truth now

Your heart is a strange little orange to peel.

I’m wickedly nostalgic today: laying on my bed, staring out the window, and listening to Sufjan Stevens/American Football/years-old crap. You name it.

Just a couple hours ago, I was reflecting on how, precisely three months ago, I was in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, three months ago, I will be plodding through Belgium.

Sometimes I pull a Slaughterhouse-Five type Billy Pilgrim time travel. I’ll go about my daily business and suddenly, in my head, I’m
walking around Porte d’Orleans in Paris,
acting like a child in Stratford,
crying on South Bank and leaning over the Thames,
wondering what happened to people like Mark,
drinking out of my sleeve in The Globe during a Shakespeare production

It’s snowing here and I wonder if it’s snowing there.
Resuming normal activities when I came back in December was hard, but this is infinitely harder. It’s starting to all fade away and I still need to talk about it, but it’s slipping away and no one wants to listen. Even though I’m running out of things to say. Like, thank you for the pretense of listening, BUT
You weren’t there.

I gained an understanding of world travel and raised my cultural intelligence, but I’m still unsure of if I learned who I am. Let’s face it: shit happens in the world, just try not to take it so personally. So I haven’t. But then, in totality, this wonderfully life-changing experience never happened and I’ve never left New Jersey.
This is quickly evolving into something else, which may– when all has been said and done, if it ever will– not be far off course. I feel guilty that I was being such a child in Windsor and Stratford and London sometimes. I thought maybe, after years of faking adulthood in New Jersey and New York to please the company I keep, it was time to have a little fun. I was wrong– I’m still a young thing no matter where I am. I’m trying to be my own woman, but finding out that I’m very much a pawn of someone else.
And I let them do it.
Story of my life.