* a stroll down memory lane *
I think I have a serious problem with remembering things as being much better than they actually were at the time. I have been thinking a lot about England lately. It's very hard to move somewhere for six months and spend every day walking around and making friends and going to classes and then just leave and not go back. It plays with your mind.
Did I actually ever go? Did I have all those conversations with people? What was the meaning of all that?
I was sitting in my bedroom floor a few mintues ago looking through a box I just uncovered tonight. It's full of postcards, notes from my English friends, letters from home and random bits of other things. I remember getting letters from America and carrying them around in my pockets until I got another one. It was an incredibly lonely time for me, but I did have some wonderful friends a memories. I found a little notebook I kept in my pocket in which I wrote everything during the semester that occurred to me as inspired or brilliant. There are quite a few Sylvia Plath quotes in there.
I remember one rainy afternoon when all my flatmates were gone for a holiday, I walked into town and had a cup of tea and then decided to spend the afternoon in the library. If I had been in America, a day at the library never would have happened. I'd have been far too occupied with things to do and not really revelling in the moment.
I walked in and climbed the stairs to the third floor and found a nice chair next to a window. I piled up several books and spent the afternoon indulging in some classics. The people below were hurrying to get out of the rain and I rather enjoyed my perspective over them - dry, calm and observant.
I don't remember going home after that or what happened, but things like that day haunt me in my dreams. It's almost annoying. If Preston had been somewhere in America, it wouldn't have been that big of a deal for me to go back and visit. However, a 9 hour flight and about 5,000 miles separate me from the girl I've become, and the girl I was. I still feel like part of me is over there walking around, reading and taking pictures. The whole thing just makes me want to cry for the nostalgia of it.
I am a sentimental fool.
I think I really enjoyed The Bell Jar by Plath when I was overseas because the protagonist shared many of my sentimets. I felt smothered at times and caught in an endless void in others.
"If Mrs. Guinea has given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference to me because wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street cafe in Paris or Bangkok - I would still be under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own soul air." - Plath
The moon is shining high outside my window - it's past midnight and I am still awake. I suppose I'll try to sleep again. I just need some peace about these things that I realize I probably won't have until I'm dead. I'm just thankful that my adventures are not over - that I have an entire life of mindless meanderings and wonderful tragedies and love to embrace.
I swear I think I am haunted by my own ghost. (Yes, that's a lyric...whoever can name the band gets a cookie...HINT...they broke up recently, much to my dismay)
Peace be with you.