Summer and the constant escape
Summer is over. Self-realizations are killing me. This, by far, is the weirdest summer I’ve had. I opted to choose the word ‘weird’ because it can be a mixture of everything extreme at the same time I decided I don’t want to use the world ‘bipolar’ for that. Not now. Not yet.
It is still warm. If I step outside my air-conditioned room, the overwhelming heat circulating the entire house can kill me. But it also started to rain already. In some nights, the sound of the trickling water will cradle me as I fall asleep to the book I’m reading.
What am I thinking? What have I been thinking? There’s something inside me that’s making me feel uneasy. It feels like I’m trying to solve a puzzle inside my head but it’s too vague to the point that I could not even tell if it really needs to be solved or not. Are these thoughts about summer? Are these real memories or pure imagination? Is there even a way to tell the difference?
Basically, I am in a limbo. Those summer nights dropped me low to a halfway house with uncertain emotions. It laid my soul there carefully but it feels more like I awfully hit the ground. Or maybe I’m just tired because those weeks are just fucking crazy and awesome. I met a lot of new people, got closer to some of them, befriended several, and lost some. I’m both happy and grieving because while these are blossoming treasures, the fact that they were over is making every inch of my body ache with harsh sentimental pinch.
Did summer make me a better person? I’d like to think otherwise. I made irrational decisions, entertained thoughts that don’t submit to social acceptance, and still don’t care. Until now, I’m asking myself where I accumulated the bravery towards making aggressive actions. It’s like coming fresh from an eternal bath but the urge to get dirty is always overwhelming. So I figured, maybe there’s really no escaping temptation or it’s just me pretending to be weak but actually, I’m aware of everything, of my hesitance to filter my deeds, of my incapability to resist fun for anything customary.
All of these things, they all boil down to one thing. Perhaps I’m just trying to rebel my way out of the pseudo independence I have. Every time I go home from a trip, I don’t know why but I curse every step towards it as if there was really nothing to go home to. I want to make a detour and ask the universe to lead me to a home. Instead, it will push me back to this empty box with anger and frustrations spilling over in all corners.
I’m not blaming anything or anyone. I’m claiming full responsibility for all my actions and feelings. I didn’t want to come out feeling so down towards life so I easily get lured. When people ask me why I’m always out, I wanted to tell them the truth. It is outside of the house where I truly find home… in the wild, in the unpredictability of the weather, in all those times spent in getting wasted, into the unfamiliar world that usually belongs to someone else, and in the endless road.