Post-London Progression & Peanut Butter

 

Time is unfathomable to me lately. I have always struggled with Time. Time and I are at war. We will forever fight this ceaseless battle. No one will ever win. I somehow survive Time's wrath, and something is left over in me, like the rings on the stump of an Oak tree. I'm stained with my memories. Every event of my life is unscathed, flawless. I remember everything. Every experience erodes something in me, slowly releasing the light of my soul. Traveling has chipped the biggest pieces away; made me feel exposed to the elements. The feeling that is overtaking me right now is like an all-encompassing weight of one thousand heavy leaves, and I can only see through the fringe. I feel so full from experience, yet so empty and bare.

Two weeks in London seemed like a lifetime, a never-ending journey. And then it ended. My mother always says, like the cynical woman she denies being, "all good things must come to an end". It's true. Being back home to the norm, to my planned out community, makes me almost wish I never left Irvine to begin with. I should have missed my flight. I should have walked away from the tube station, back into the light, back into Kings Cross, and felt the cold on my face one more time. And now I'm home, and I can smell the ocean, the salt in the air, and I'm lucky. I traded in my tube pass for my car. I traded in the dirty porn-ridden telephone booths for my blackberry. The discomforts of London, which I loved, were swapped with the comforts of Southern California, which I loathe.

Eloquence aside, this is not a fun feeling. The usual post-traveling slump is horrible. I'm a wriggling body buried alive in this feeling. Buried alive in peanut butter. Suffocating. I quite like peanut butter. But I don't like this.

To think that London sparked some anxiety in me before I left is strange. Here is something I wrote before my trip:

As Meesh and I embark for London, I question myself. I feel a sort of steady unease at our boldness. This supposed boldness does not come easy, nor is it acquired from experience. Meesh and I are not bold or unreserved, despite what many of you may think of me. I am fearsome, slightly anxious; maybe a bit scared of the sights and events that await us in London. I am well-traveled, especially at my age, but nothing thus far can guarantee me anything.

I should have stopped smoking pot before the trip, hence the anxiety, and prepared for the feeling I have now, the peanut butter.

I need to be spread thin on a piece of white bread so I can breathe again.

I need to plan my next soul-bearing endeavor.

I need to wrap my tentacles around the next place that presents itself.