When I don't know what to do with myself, I run and read. My head has been buried in a year's worth of Bon Appetit magazines or my feet have been hitting the pavement (with the new sneakers my dad bought me). I've done this my whole life and aside from my friends and family, it seems to be one of the few things I have from my previous life here that I have kept (or can relate to). Everything else is different. I feel like I am visiting the life of a distant relative-only it's me-yet these memories can't be mine; they're too far away. She can't be me and they can't be mine but they are, which is causing a haze of dissonance that surrounds me and makes my entire life surreal at the moment.
I have so much more to write but cannot seem to make myself write it. A huge invisible yet palpable wall is forbidding me to put these words into digital print...should you care, bear with me. I'm certain they will eventually crawl their way out.