Picture frames cover the walls of what I used to be. It's mid-october and my mother has candles burning in the next room over. It smells like apple pie. I sit on the porch with my grandmother and I dream the dreams I've always dreamt of dreaming. Amidst the excitement in my voice I find my self speaking so fast that my words spill over into the next, like a conjunction of miscellaneous syllables making a sentance only understood by my own self. Mimi pretends to listen anyway. When I care about something, I talk the way I write. A long and rambling stream of conciousness looping back to the mind of my own self with complete disregard to the audience. I do not know if this will ever change.
Today I ran into a woman whom I've known my whole life. She asked me when I would be putting out my first book, because she'd like me to sign it. She went on to tell me how much she loves my writing. I cannot remember the last time I wrote something. We put a for sale sign in front of our house yesterday. A neighbor asked my grandma why they decided to sell it now, and not wait until im successful enough to own the five bedroom lake house myself it as a summer home- and he was completely serious. I find it wild that other people can believe in you more than you believe in yourself sometimes.
I overthink life as a whole and it drives me beautifuly insane. People tell me not to think so much but when I allow mysef to be at peace I underthink and then I just don't get anywhere. I wake up three months later and it feels like the same day it was to begin with. I become stuck in a time warp of never growing and then always wanting the same things and wishing I had done something to get them sooner. And then I forget about it again. I wake up three months later telling myself the same thing.
Maybe it's California and all the fucked up people in it. Maybe I'm just the fucked up one amidst being lost in this overromantisized corner of the universe. Perhaps Im just overthinking it all like I always have. Needing to get out of New York, needing to get out of California, over and over again- it's always been the same. To run from something instead of towards something. There is no refuge in a place to make you the person you want to become. That is up to you and only you.
I've come to the conclusion that I don't give myself enough credit in this universe for all that I am. The sixteen year old version of myself is nailing picture frames to the walls of my bedroom tonight. She will tell stories of the somedays out there in the big scary world outside of this place and she will hope to be things that I forgot that I had hoped to be.
Tonight I'll sit on the porch with some candles, and begin to dream the dreams...