I found some of my polaroids from almost two years ago in a wardrobe that we had pushed to the far corner of our attic since we moved. Rejects most likely - photos I didn't care for at the time. Picking out piece after piece from each drawer, i found them like old letters that had been written to a stranger. I collected some in a small pile and tried to recount each one. It seemed that I was looking at photographs
I'd never seen before. I could not remember a thing about any of them. I felt both excited and sad.
It's been about two weeks since I returned home from being on tour with Spirits and I miss it more than I thought missing everything that is familiar could be possible. I used to be very content with familiarity and still understand it's importance even if I no longer crave it. I often times would go back to it whenever I needed a break from change; like it was a ritual of cleansing and rejuvenation so that I might brace change again without feeling overwhelmed and listless and tired. So so tired. But tired in the sense that is torpid and spiritless.
Not having the option to return to familiarity while I was away allowed me to break through some invisible net that had always been in the way of the exit point. It would lead me back in the other direction once I'd come just close enough. I realized that change, given the right doses and with wonderful people around you experiencing it all at the same time can be one of the most relieving feelings. And once you've come back to something that is wholly familiar, seeking out that feeling on your own is what's hard to do. But I guess what's fantastically different is that I no longer feel so tired.
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Forest of the Lost Boys