I have a terrible sensation that nothing I've accomplished in my life counts, and it's brought upon by my leaving. Living somewhere where no one is going to know me, where I don't have a reputation yet, almost erases my entire past. Almost... what a chickenshit word; it does erase my past. This should thrill the overbearing temptation to attempt to be someone else, because in a world with no familiar faces I could be anyone. But instead I'm dreading the chance to be the foreigner. I am not me these days.
The furniture for my new living arrangements is awkwardly sitting in the living room of a house that I am living in but is not mine, which is exactly how dorm life will be. So you'd think the dorm-style pieces wouldn't strike me as so out of place, yet I can hardly look at them very long without feeling uncomfortable. Those aren't my things; my things are in an oriental-red room with a south facing window on the corner of Gatewood place and Gatewood court. But to actually find that location would prove my things are not there and to confirm that I am in a most uncomfortable state of limbo. I am a baby bird without a nest to fly from. And on top of it all, I use horrible metaphors.
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