“you can't go home,” said thomas wolfe, “back home to the
old forms and systems of things which once seemed ever
lasting but which are changing all the time.” but...here i am.
i've shattered that idea like expensive broken china, like the
mirrors i shattered within the 72 hours of being back here in
texas, the state of volatile weather patterns and skeletons i've
hid in the toybox in the attic upstairs. he said, “i can't go back
home to my childhood.” thomas, i have retained memories
like these and kept them hidden in the jewelry box along
with the lock of my hair i cut with scissors purposely when
i was seven tied up in a bow. i've uncovered artifacts from
my past, refuting your statement. thomas said, “i cannot go
back home to aestheticism.” as he believes the small-town
image i exist within will shapeshift at will and without
hesitation. another thing, he mentioned, “i cannot go back
home to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency
of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love'.” landmarks still stand out to me.
the bridge connecting both parks nearby my house overlooking
a large lake at the peak of the golden hour is sufficient enough
for art. it is sufficient enough to be considered something of
beauty, that needs to be captured. it is sufficient enough to
remember i've loved and lost so many things on this bridge.
thomas said, “i cannot go back home to the father you have
lost and have been looking for.” but thomas, i have recently
faced my dad with red glazed-over eyes, and he has always
been looking out for me. he has always shone a beacon
towards me, yet i've been so terrified of following the lights
in fear of losing my shadows. you told me, “i cannot go back
home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden
for you.” all i have been doing is surrounding myself with
people who can help me, save me, and ease my burdens.
and i can't help but notice gaps in these moments when
you say, “you're back home to the escapes of time and
memory, but katelyn, remember, the old forms and systems
of things which once seemed everlasting are rapidly changing
all the time.” and i notice the large gaps like amnesia blackouts.
sorrow can handle long distance relationships, but i can not.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC
“you can't go home,” said thomas wolfe, “back home to the
old forms and systems of things which once seemed ever
lasting but which are changing all the time.” but...here i am.
i've shattered that idea like expensive broken china, like the
mirrors i shattered within the 72 hours of being back here in
texas, the state of volatile weather patterns and skeletons i've
hid in the toybox in the attic upstairs. he said, “i can't go back
home to my childhood.” thomas, i have retained memories
like these and kept them hidden in the jewelry box along
with the lock of my hair i cut with scissors purposely when
i was seven tied up in a bow. i've uncovered artifacts from
my past, refuting your statement. thomas said, “i cannot go
back home to aestheticism.” as he believes the small-town
image i exist within will shapeshift at will and without
hesitation. another thing, he mentioned, “i cannot go back
home to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency
of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love'.” landmarks still stand out to me.
the bridge connecting both parks nearby my house overlooking
a large lake at the peak of the golden hour is sufficient enough
for art. it is sufficient enough to be considered something of
beauty, that needs to be captured. it is sufficient enough to
remember i've loved and lost so many things on this bridge.
thomas said, “i cannot go back home to the father you have
lost and have been looking for.” but thomas, i have recently
faced my dad with red glazed-over eyes, and he has always
been looking out for me. he has always shone a beacon
towards me, yet i've been so terrified of following the lights
in fear of losing my shadows. you told me, “i cannot go back
home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden
for you.” all i have been doing is surrounding myself with
people who can help me, save me, and ease my burdens.
and i can't help but notice gaps in these moments when
you say, “you're back home to the escapes of time and
memory, but katelyn, remember, the old forms and systems
of things which once seemed everlasting are rapidly changing
all the time.” and i notice the large gaps like amnesia blackouts.
sorrow can handle long distance relationships, but i can not.
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