I am revisiting stored memories from a familiar place
It is like an old home. A place that feels so familiar, but a place you have been distance from for so long, the place becomes foreign again. It feels like a constant critique of my former self. How fitting.
Writing about my feelings always helped my thought. Writing is an escape from the reality of real feelings and real words. It is not that I am really trying to escape where I am at, it is more like a vacation, back to that old familiar place.
I feel lifted, and a bit nervous typing like this again. The freedom is tantalizing yet so nerve wrecking. I do not know what I am going to write, or what I am going to feel. I am self conscience of what I am saying, knowing that my critiques will flutter my mind once I come back to this familiar place.
My soul lies here, in pieces and fragments scattered like little messages, or a torn apart letter. I can put it together, or leave that skeleton in the closet. It is fear, the cold fear that surrounds me here. But it is quite comforting to know that it is exists, always. No matter where I go, what I see, or how I feel, this place will always exist.
