so, here's the thing: transitions aren't supposed to be as easy as mine was. you're not supposed to find great friends that quickly, you're not supposed to feel at home that soon, and you're not supposed to stay up at night wondering what you did in some past life to deserve all these nice things that are happening. and i know for a fact you're absolutely not supposed to stay up at night thinking about when it is all going to go horribly wrong.
i don't know why i went home, really. i don't know what i expected to happen. i left my happy little home in the bronx and i came home to an empty, redone and overly sterile house. one that it seemed no one had ever lived in. a house that, officially now, is no longer a home.
it left me wondering,
did it only take 3 weeks to erase 15 years of memories?
the pile of music on the piano is gone, the ugly wallpaper in the family room is replaced with eggshell paint, my favorite chair is confined to the basement. even the coffee machine, something quintessential to our household, was hidden away. my bird is confined to the laundry room, and my room looks like something out of elle decor and not the usual shitshow of clothes and diet coke. later, i was driving down the same streets of my hometown thinking about everything that had happened on them: it all seemed so distant already. it all seemed so empty without the people there. and it was strange because everything was physically all there, but yet everything was so different. and even when we are all reunited for thanksgiving break, we will all have our happy little homes elsewhere...
it was the first time i got upset about change.
so i came back, to my happy new little home in the bronx, and sunk back into what is now comfortable for me.
still am trying to mull it all over...