la Tristeza
When your nearest and dearest feel a million miles away, even as they are speaking into your ear, looking into your eyes.
Call home seeking to lose myself in their voices. But what voice? I didn't think it was possible for him to sound any quieter. There's no current left in him - his fuse has blown. And her? I feel her looking at her book as she listens to my hold-your-breath silence. A lack of interest, not in me, but everything.
I want my home back. But did it ever exist the way that I have always told myself?
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If reaching "real adulthood" is possible to do, or even pinpoint, I believe it would have been the day I realized that my childhood home was gone. But the betrayal was not from the fact of its disappearance, but rather stemmed from my self-loathing, my feeling that it had been snatched from my very grasp while I had been looking elsewhere. When I was too busy proving to myself that I was growing up. Losing that connection seems understandable and purposeful, even inevitable, but it never relieves the sting of it.
Mañana es mejor!
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