So much has happened, I hardly know where to begin, and as usual what I have written before.
I am still stuck at my parents, in a seemingly unending charade of joy. How I wish I were not here. The subtle comments, the looks and the sighs. To be free again, to smell the rain, and to hear the birds. To feel as though there is no reason to get up, and to snuggle back into bed, comfortable that my existence is justified.
But no. I awake, surrounded by windows and walls, on a camp bed, haphazardly located in a room previously dedicated to ironing. The furniture, full of sheets and towels, and the few possessions I have here, stuffed under the 'bed'.
Headphones on, I listen to the newest song to hold my attention, disappearing between the melody into a place of tranquillity; blissfully unaware of the noise around me. And yet, this is not enough. I can feel the energy, the tension, the misery. It seeps from this house and permeates my being. I feel like I'm drowning. Lost behind the smile and the child of old.