It's surprising how my home life limits my creativity, and numbs me so that when I have a day off I don't even know what to do. Technically I'm from a liberal, artsy, loving and supportive family, but somehow I can never do what I want. I can't wait until I go back to school so that I have an excuse to stay in town. I definitely won't be studying at home. No way... There's too much anger between my severely hormonal, adolescent sister and my aging parents. I'm caught in the middle and am supposed to give my opinion only when it supports my parents' point of view. But if I don't give my opinion or I try to stay out of the way (albeit mostly for my own sake) I'm looked at as a selfish, unsupportive, non-family member. Ugh.
So what do I do? I escape. Virtually into dreams and memories of places that were less stressful; physically into my travels and hikes and daily runs. I love the holidays, but I have started to resent that squishy, always-at-home-in-pajamas feeling. Open the fucking blinds. We are not vampires! But we sort of are... all I want is to be outdoors on a farm nearby a forest and some sort of water. So here I am, sitting at a cafe, whose doors open to the marina, inviting in the wind which sets the hanging strands of seashells chiming. At least here I find some sort of peace.
I don't like coming home to my house. I love my house and my room and my garden, and my family. But I don't like coming home. It means dropping off my freedom at the doorstep and submitting to the desires and demands of others. The dwindling liquid in my coffee cup gives me inner spurts of anxiety. Soon there will be nothing but escaped grinds and velvety coffee soot at the bottom of the cup, and I'll have no reason to stay here any longer. I'll have no excuse to avoid going home... Sip, Sip, Sip, Slurp... gone. Time to go home.
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