I find dwelling on the past to be somewhat rewarding, somewhat painful. I find many people telling me to stop reliving the past, but the past is what makes us who we are, makes us stronger, develops our character. I am a person who remembers all the little things, the tiny details. I keep constant record of all these things in case I may need to use them again one day. To say my life is hard is to be dramatic. It's stressful, yes, and I end up being on the wrong side of luck and circumstance more often than not. Yet somehow, I persevere. I don't know why or how, what motivation I may have, but for some reason, I keep going. Maybe it's the fact that as human beings, we know nothing else than life. It's all we've ever done. We live in the shadow of death, the inevitable fate that becomes us all. As hard as my life seems, I always seems to dance on the edge of light and dark. I can never give into the dark side, as one may say, but I cannot stay in the light, whether by choice or some sort of catastrophic intervention. I am, for all intents and purposes, a perfect balance. I want what I don't want, I desire what I can't have. I long for love of those that cannot, and probably will never love back. I play devil's advocate too often for my own good. I hope, and wish that this blog will signify some sort of change in my life, some new direction that my road may go, but I know it will not be the case. I was hoping that breaking my hand back in April would have been the worst I would have seen all year, but the fates disagree. Here I am, writing a blog that was once deceased, resurrecting the fallen if you will. I sit in the second floor of a house in the Oak Park suburb of Chicago. I long to go home. Why? I couldn't tell you. The only thing I really have going for me in Dallas is a job. Sure, my father is there, but I feel as though I've worn out my welcome. It's the same with the few friends I have there. I feel as though I hang out with them too much, like I'm a burden to their existence. Hell, even the friend that I once likened to my brother seems to want nothing to do with me. Maybe it's part of life's process. Maybe all things drift apart. Maybe I am starting to crack at the seams.
I guess the main thing that bothers me right now is that one of the most amazing people I've met is moving to Australia. I only knew her for two weeks before she left, but I liken her leaving to having a taste of ambrosia only for it to disappear forever. It will always leave you wanting more. I feel as though she had plenty of wonders in store, many delightful surprises for me to discover. I realize I have grown too attached to someone who was going away, and that is my fault. I curse the heavens for tempting me with a flower so beautiful.
Perhaps in my confused state, I'll haphazardly stumble into some good fortune.