Lucien's Lil Nook

I’m longing for something, a missing piece in my heart, but it plays hide and seek in quiet shadows. Small enough to ignore, I’m not bothered in my minutes, only my days. The hole rots inside. I wretch with nostalgia and revel in its melancholy. I’m forced to admit my life has changed, constantly affronted with that reality. I no longer wake to the mews of small grey cat. Instead, I breathe the dry air of an unfamiliar mountain climate, standing at the center of my new apartment, a prison of my own creation.

Stone colored walls, large windows sat upon dark wooden floors, I’m not trapped in my own apartment. I’m able to experience this new city whenever I want to, but I don’t want to. I refuse to want to. I refuse to walk unknown sidewalks leading to mysterious ends. I refuse to worry whether to smile or casually greet someone I pass on my journeys. I refuse to allow myself the potential to discover a hidden paradise within this new life. I refuse to entertain the thought that I could feel comfortable in this new direction I’ve thrust myself in. If I did, I would have to acknowledge the change that has already happened.

Why do good things have to end? Why are places, people, connections, roots, familiarities, hatreds, loves, and comforts all so fleeting? I enjoyed my life, the people I met, the things I did, the place I was in. I worked hard to build a place that felt like home and in the blink of an eye, it melted away into a foreign sunrise rising over foothills of a life I just stumbled into.

Embrace the new. Celebrate change.

There was a time I thought I was comfortable with the different and the unknown. I somehow believed I had procured a gem of wisdom in life that allowed me to float along life raucous river. But I realize now, I accepted change because I was a survivor on a broken raft and could care less about where the current took me. When I went to college and moved away from home, I saw the change as a golden opportunity, tranquil waters that I could stop and rest. I fervently wished for a life better than what I had and college was the culmination of that hope. And that wish came true, resulting in better than I ever could’ve imagined then. Friends that became, love that was unconditional, care that extended beyond necessity, these feelings were so unfamiliar in their consistency and their warmth, but nourished me in places I didn’t know I was starving. A burden of responsibility, that had remained on my shoulders for decades, finally lifted to allow me the freedom to explore myself, discover my interests, and feel love that my soul was deprived of for far too long. I was filled with a love of life, of my life, and I was consumed, so saturated with joy to be cautious of how it’d feel when it reached an end.

And even when it did, I only ignored it more.

Goodbyes feels so temporary when you’re this young. We have our whole lives ahead of us, we were bound to see each other again. But it wasn’t just the people I’d miss. It was the routine, the life, the city, the college, the air, the skies, the house, it was everything else that I didn’t realize was even possible to mourn, and yet my body has become riddled with grief.

To remain, filled with holes, is not to live but to accept your death. I’ve become aware of my state of mourning, but that doesn’t change these circumstances. I’m no longer purely unwilling but instead, cautious to settle into this town, to find friends and form more connections. But currently, cautious is no better than reluctant and to endure like this means to live with no meaning, with no direction, no goals, no point, no happiness. I can’t continue to wait for my life to suddenly ‘begin,’ as if the world is only keeping that truth from me. I must forge that path, work for it, but where do I get that energy? Where is life in the memories that have already died?

I don’t know these answers. Rather, I’ll take my first steps out of my front door. I might not be acknowledging this change, but I can graze myself with these unfamiliar discomfort and their edges will soon grow dull. I’ll acknowledge this wound will heal and how I must enjoy the life I’ve been given to the fullest I can. I’ll allow myself to adopt a new perspective. A view that will patch that hole, dearly hold my past in a gentle cradle, and grant me the energy to march forward in excitement. Time moves endlessly and none can halt its venture, so I mustn’t fear the distance between me and those memories, and consume myself with regrets to not preserve what I had because…

I cannot stagnate time.

I long for something, a missing piece of my heart that I fear has grown obtuse and now, cannot fit back into its rightful home. It plays hide and seek, flitting between shadows of memories that now twinge in pain as I look upon them. But they don’t hold me in contempt of that pain. Their faces point to a clock on the wall, softly ticking as the seconds fall away. The clock grows larger as I approach it, hands made of iron trapped under a thick pane of plexiglass. But instead of numbers, I see face, billions of clouded eyes and foggy features, incorporeal yet alive and distraught. As each silently weeps, I hold my hand out to the cold, clear plastic and wonder, if I shattered this man-made barrier would I still be able to hear their wails?