Nostalgic Mimi

New things, old things; I'm glad there's a place where they both exist, sometimes.

Because no matter how good you get, you're just you: halved. A very clean, empty home, walls scoured to unstable matchsticks.

That, or there is another.

In these places where you forget, someone else will remember, and rise up to pay the tab; and in places of free space and wide windows, you will push out and touch, as only you know how to touch. This is not the same house by night and day; but it's always alive, always full, always living, speaking, ambling, rambling. And that's all that matters, right? Functionality. Or, at least, the appearance of it.

Am I being horridly sentimental if I say no? Maybe this is just a problem of appearances. I'm jiffy fine with metal and gears and silver cords, but this thing that I can't put my finger on--dnw. That's the problem, really. I can't seem to get my claws in it. It's like chain mail, except ten times more tantalizing on the outside (and chain mail is pretty exciting on its own, so that's saying something). This is very different from what I've done and what, I suspect, I will do after this is all over. Acid washed papers and thin, metal pins; that's where I'm headed from here.

But then, maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way. Yes, it still functions. Of course, it still functions. But it does change. There is movement. One day, someone does up the front with a little blue awning and some wall sconces; the next day, the awning and lights are gone, and a ruddy old bench sits out on the porch (which wasn't there yesterday, either--they're very busy, and very particular about themselves and their things). And some days, the bench and porch stay longer than they should. I am supposed to see this as good. But it all seems rather moldy to me. It is--but I am not terribly thrilled with this. It cannot escape this state--it cannot do, which means it cannot play. It undoes and forgets in a way that I cannot quite bring myself to forgive.

I don't get it. Peeryud.
But that's what studying's for, no? Back to the books, I guess.