Mood: sometimes...
Listening to: Wallflowers

I hate the anticipation of a brief relief of stress being met simply by another brick wall. I hate outside pressures. I hate mascara smeared by tears, and tears when they linger on the outside of a nostril. I hate the unmistakeable high-pitched tone in my voice that signals when I'm about to lose it. Blotchy red.

I also hate the inability to move foward, to get past something- to "let something go". And I hate it when you don't have anyone near that can empathise with your need to keep ahold of that something.

My parents are in Alaska now, and mom just packed up my room. She said they didn't know which crap I'd want to keep and which to throw away, so they packed it all. They found my "outdoor survival kit" (garbage bag, fishingline, pocketknife, magnifying glass, waterproof matches, flint) stuffed in a bandaide container. They went through the papers and assignments I kept from gradeschool, and the open journals I kept. I wonder if they found the silly notes I kept from Trent, or the paper I folded up to remind me why suicide is selfish.
I know they probably went through my trinket collection (dried starfish, shells, seaurchins, dragonflies, fish earbones and small abilone and feathers). They packed up my letters, my old tapered, too-light, too-big in the butt jeans that I hated and my tee-shirts with paint on them from that summer. They probably went through my photoalbum- another summer.

Home won't ever be a home again. Even though my friends all moved away after I went to school- this time its different. Camp won't exist at all. Its not the same for someone who's lived a "normal" life, a "normal" childhood. Not that many people I knew grew up on a floating town. Whenever I moved as a child, my home went with me. Whenever I moved as a teenager, (boarding school, Austria), I could always go home. Now home will have to be sold. Oregon is home to, but not like Alaska is to me. I knew it had to happen, but I wish I was ready.