41 lines
4.0 KiB
HTML
41 lines
4.0 KiB
HTML
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<!DOCTYPE html>
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<html>
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<head>
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<meta charset="UTF-8">
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<title>warning: change ahead - Archive - MayVaneDay Studios</title>
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</head>
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<body>
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<p align=center>
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<b>MayVaneDay Studios (Gopher Edition)</b>
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</p>
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<p> </p>
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<p><b>warning: change ahead</b></p>
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<p><b>published: 10-30-2016</b></p>
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<p> </p>
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<p>There's something in the air.</p>
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<p>And no, it’s not turkeys- although we saw plenty of those on the way there.
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Over the past few months, there has been an impending sense of doom hanging over my head with no specific due date. It’s like I’ve forgotten to study for a big test right around the corner, like there’s some important date that all my peers know about and have been preparing for but that I’ve been left in the dark about- maybe on purpose, as I’ve never really been liked by my peers, maybe on accident.</p>
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<p>Do you know the feeling?</p>
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<p>I spent the day in a new town yesterday. Let’s call it Wychester as I don’t want to accidentally dox myself in the extremely minuscule chance that someone from Wychester reads my blog and particularly cares about the senior girl moving in to a small abandoned loop of road. We were originally going to be spending the day there in order to see a musical taking place at the school my father works at, but the day grew infinitely more interesting to me when we got a call from a realtor asking if we wanted to look at a house.</p>
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<p>The impending sense of doom was that, at the end of my junior year at high school, we would be moving to this Wychester so that my father didn’t have to spend multiple hours in a commute to and back from his job. It would help my younger brothers, my parents said. I concluded that everything else, like the friends that I’d just finally been able to make and the town that I adored, would just be collateral damage.</p>
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<p>That I'd just be collateral damage.</p>
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<p>There’s something in Wychester’s air, something that I haven’t yet been able to describe. It’s part loneliness, like I know that I’ll be emotionally isolated. High school has never been nice to me. Pair that with subpar social skills (although I’m improving all the time!) and the climate of a bunch of hormonal high school students that I know nothing about, and you’ve practically got yourself a recipe for a depressive sort of bump in the road of life. It’s part wistful longing, like I know that I’m caught between a rock and a hard place and wish that it wasn’t so, even though I know that there’s no other way that these cards could have fell.</p>
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<p>There are so many memories in this house here. How am I supposed to leave them all behind? Merely taking the objects with me won’t help much- it’s like trying to pull a bug out of a spider web. A trinket tipped over and resting on the same bookcase it has for five years isn’t the same as moving the trinket, placing it on a bookcase somewhere else, and then trying to emulate the tip. Something feels forced.</p>
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<p>And yet, something inside of me is eager to get out of this house, out of this stale city. Things are too predictable here, this section of my mind says. Too much same old, same old kills a writer, and the air of Wychester feels like a fresh breath after being underwater for too long.</p>
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<p>But my mind doesn’t particularly like having to deal with conflicting feelings, so it invents characters like Nox and Adelaide Audette and Lank from Walmart as methods to escape them for a little bit. They exist somewhere in between imaginary friends and anthropomorphic emotions. Maybe they’ll get fully-fledged stories one day, or at least more than a passing mention in a disorganized blog post. They won’t need boxes or loads of packing tape to come with me. They follow me everywhere- even to places where I would much rather prefer to be fully in my own mind. Would they follow me to Wychester, to the large living rooms of the second house we visited?</p>
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<p>There’s change in the air.</p>
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</body>
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</html>
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