![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
I don't know if I've ever been this comfortable in my own life before. It's interesting, feeling like I've been waiting all my life to be right here, right now, living in a residence hall with a bunch of nutty teenaged girls and a stressed out music major roommate, getting up at eight o clock to walk across the street and learn American history, and then go out with my family for dinner almost every night, and sit in my room and read for class and fool around on the internet and eat oranges.
I don't want to be somewhere else. I don't spend all my time thinking about how much better things would be if I lived in Wisconsin/Arizona/not with my mom, or if only I could say something to Jazlin/Josejuan/whatever J name person I'm crushing on this week, or if I could just get some work done, or if my classes were less boring. I'm totally content right here, doing what I'm doing. It's kind of a first for me, and I'm not entirely sure how to deal with it.
Other than forcing myself to write, which is increasingly difficult to do, along with reading, because I see no reason to get away from the real world. I've never had trouble reading, for crying out loud, because it was always better to be somewhere else. And now it's not, and that's weird.
Not bad, of course, but weird. Very different. I think I could get used to it.
(and I've been doing a pretty good job, for me, of ignoring the voice in the back of my head that says it's all going to implode sooner or later, because things are going too well. Pretty good. Not perfect.)
I don't want to be somewhere else. I don't spend all my time thinking about how much better things would be if I lived in Wisconsin/Arizona/not with my mom, or if only I could say something to Jazlin/Josejuan/whatever J name person I'm crushing on this week, or if I could just get some work done, or if my classes were less boring. I'm totally content right here, doing what I'm doing. It's kind of a first for me, and I'm not entirely sure how to deal with it.
Other than forcing myself to write, which is increasingly difficult to do, along with reading, because I see no reason to get away from the real world. I've never had trouble reading, for crying out loud, because it was always better to be somewhere else. And now it's not, and that's weird.
Not bad, of course, but weird. Very different. I think I could get used to it.
(and I've been doing a pretty good job, for me, of ignoring the voice in the back of my head that says it's all going to implode sooner or later, because things are going too well. Pretty good. Not perfect.)