the passing of time

Yesterday my mom told me, en route to the bookstore, that in just a little over two months, I'll be back at school and abruptly my stomach dropped and clenched and I told her that I didn't want to hear that. Summer is nice and beautiful and sweet and waking up at home and living in my room with my dad and my dog downstairs has healed whatever scars this year of loneliness and learning had left on my skin and now I am pure again.

I wish time worked like a turntable. That it spun slowly along the grooves of a vinyl record, produced music to meditate to or to dance to or to write to, that eventually you could stop it, could prolong a moment and replay it again and again. Instead, time rolls as a wheel does, it only goes one way and cannot turn around on its own.

Today, I feel as though I am peeking behind a veil, a curtained window, into the rest of the world. Everyone can relate to everyone and know everyone but my friends and I don't talk about what is inside of us, and I am beginning to feel like no one really thinks about me when I am not around. I'm lucky to have such a strong relationship with myself.

I am suffering from a faulty connection. The wires that bind us together are strong, electric, but the one that connects to me is fraying slightly. I can still hear them but I wonder abruptly if anyone hears me. I might be too mature. Too stuck inside my body to get outside of it, really, to read a friend's suggestion and agree, even if it sounds like a bad idea. I want to have fun but fun to me is different than everyone else's. I want to walk in the woods and look at nature and feel a part of something other than myself.

My room is clean but no one can come over, my mind is clean but no one wants to see it. I am not lonely, here, alone. I am happiest in my solitude but it would be wonderful to not feel so frustrated with others all the time.