Journal # 05.28.15

I grew up in New England. If I found a lucky niche for myself within a group of people, I would try and hold on to that belonging with all my might. These were times I fought change. The study halls were quiet except the rustling of papers and scratching of pencils on paper. And the heat pushing from the furnace into the pipes. Some kids wet the paper and pulled the pens apart to shoot spit balls. I showed antisocial tendencies at an early age. I would really be inconsolable over something which happened, and no one could reach me. So I would mutiny for awhile and just be upset and burning, unable to stop burning. There were certain trees I liked to sit under. Certain classrooms would be empty at certain times of the day, where I might go to be alone and do my work. When I was well-liked, I wanted this to last. I did not want myself to change, or the circumstances had coincided to make me whole again. I hoped for a snapshot of the context and to keep it in my pocket with the phone number of some new friend all folded up and handmade. I was troubled by and by.