UPDATE FROM THE FUTURE: This is a maaaaaajor angstbucket post. I think the metaphors and stuff are really pretty so I'm keeping it up, but don't worry for my mental health. I'm better now.
Sorry for posting twice in a day. Go to my earlier post 'Snowstorm' if you want to actually read something.
God. I want to write a poem about Europe. I know, I have way too many. But none of them really express how I feel. None of them really express the agony, the day to day pain of missing Roma and Firenze and Assisi and Paris and Athens and Isthmia. Mostly Roma, though. Oh, Roma. I want to go back so badly. I despise my small town. I am locked in the shittiest small town in all of existence, and my true home is an ocean away. Oh, Roma!
And I long to express it somehow, in fiction or poetry or art, but I can't do it. Nothing comes close to describing it. So I am forced to simply shudder in tears as the memories get farther away and fuzzier and the sunlight dissipates away from my skin and the perfect blue Italian sky fades from my eyes and the feel of the air is gone into nothingness.
I'm screaming in tears and in agony and in longing, and no one does a thing, because here in Craptown, America, you aren't allowed to be different. I've got so much light, so much life hidden inside of me, and they hammer it back, force it back, lock it away because it's unattractive. Nope, sorry, your light puts us in shadow. Your colors make us look bad. Nope, nope, no happiness here. On the assembly line with you. Away from the art, away from the literature, no light for you, no happiness, come back little lost lamb, come back to the herd and follow us to our suburban paths of Ivy League colleges and careers in medicine and a family with an acceptable husband and 2.5 kids and one dog and TV dinners.
It's so scary, you don't even know, how they trick you until you're almost sure that's how it will be, until you're so scared that you don't have any choices that you only take solace in your tears. I'm so scared that Roma was only a wonderful dream, that I'll never go back, that I'll be locked in this prison forever. America's a prison. I don't like it here. God, please take me back. The sky isn't blue here. The sun doesn't shine here. Nobody lives here. And I want to live.
I take solace in you, though. I wish I could stare into your eyes, the only place where I can still see that sky. There isn't any sunlight, but you are illuminated by sunlight. How is that possible? I can't hear the music, but you're emanating music. How is that possible?
You, too, must be yanked away from me in a rush of doors and pages and words. You'll never be mine.
I'm sorry for what I must have done. I want to go home.
Shhh, Ariel. Just keep telling yourself, just keep reminding yourself that it's only a matter of waiting. Hold down your head and don't let out your soul, keep it safe from the storm, until these three years are over and you can go home. Shhh... everything will be OK.
Roma is real. You'll be home one day. One day soon. And you'll never have to return. All this will be left behind for good.
It's OK.
Shhh.
From your crying broken poet,
magic*esi
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