My life is becoming encapsulated in cardboard boxes: clothing, books, whatnot. I think I have the most boxes of books and notebooks and papers --nine thus far. It hints of an addiction to the written word, and a packrat mentality. Obviously I need to keep all those things because they could be useful some day. Some day. Like when I'm grown up.
I seem to become morose at irregular but not unexpected intervals. Every beginning is the end of something else. And all the excitement in the world cannot outweigh the bittersweet passing of time.
I got to see my cousin Marianne for far too short a time this afternoon, but I enjoyed it. Saying goodbye isn't so hard because I know that in half a year I will be in closer proximity with her than ever before --felicitous idea.
Does there ever come a time you know you are mature, or is maturity one of those things that never comes visibly? so that as long as you believe you are, you aren't, but once you stop paying attention it happens? I have a theory that personality is another one of those; that if you are so self-conscious of who you are, you aren't really, yet. And perhaps personality is linked to maturity, so that you aren't who you were meant to be until you forget yourself enough to become mature and fully yourself.
I feel as bland and innocuous as dishwater lately; as if nothing I am innately could ever be considered interesting. What I do, perhaps. But not who I am.
I know what I will be naturally like in Boot Camp: quiet and a little weird. The one who makes strange comments and laughs at everyone else's brilliant jokes and louder goofiness. I wondered last year when I became the watcher instead of interacting, but I think I've always watched. I just thought that it was lack of chance to enter in the fun. Now, I've been given the chance, and my jokes fall flat; my conversation is lacking something. Always that nameless something. As Keri would say, this is my chance for glory. New place, new people, new situation. It worked in Mexico. Maybe I can alter myself again.
One can but try. But is this not the same thing I usually get depressed about; the missing thing? I hope not. Otherwise I'm chasing the wind.