Three weeks back at home for the Christmas holidays. Three weeks in my childhood bedroom, with childhood friends, my mother’s cooking and non-stop visits to aunts and uncles. Three weeks where the past year and a half of my life lives only in my mind like an old, fuzzy dream.
At home here I am a daughter, a sister, a niece – a subordinate. I’m surrounded by my family, people who spend all their time together while I am away for months. The people I talk about – friends from college – have never met my family, they are more often than not strangers to them, whose names they struggle to remember. I don’t blame them though, what’s the point when they don’t know their parents, or even just someone who knows someone who knows them through a friend. I have to start everything again from scratch. It can even be hard to slip into old routines with friends. So you stick to the trivial; How was exams? Did you know so-and-so who we went to school with dropped out of college? Is pregnant? Is dating that guy you shifted in Fifth Year? Small town gossip that never changes despite how much we do.
So it’s three weeks of feeling like someone else. It’s confusing because I’ve changed a lot since I started college, both physically and mentally. My family praise this change, happy just to see me happy. The thing is, I’m not used to being this person at home, it’s as if she belongs somewhere else. I feel like I should be the old me. I’m living another person’s life, trying to fit into the skin I moved out of so many months ago.
When I’m home for the Christmas holidays I get sucked back into routine and now I’m struggling to write new poems. I’ve started about five since I’ve come home but I’m not happy with any of them. They lack the depth and substance I strive for. Instead I’m back to writing prose and catching up with forgotten diaries. Its times like this that I wish my blog wasn’t so poetry based, where quantity could override quality and I wouldn’t get annoyed at myself for repeating a theme in a poem when originality failed me once more.
I guess that’s why I’m writing more like this, in prose instead of poetry. It’s an old habit – sitting up late at night, expressing my inner thoughts straight from head to paper (hopefully that explains how they often appear so nonsensical). See, I’ve no idea why I’m writing this, or even why I decided to post it here. I guess I just wanted to feel like I had written something. That I would never lose that part of me, no matter where or who I was.