Picture your favorite place in the whole world, then write it down.
Since my mom passed away I’ve had a hard time remembering my favorite place. Because if I was with my mom everything was okay. I love the family I live with, but their home isn’t my favorite place.
My favorite place is here, in the band room with not shoes on typing my life to you beautiful people.
When high school comes to an end (in 66 days) I don’t know where I’m going to go. I’m ready for this chapter of my life to end, but I’m not ready to let go of this room. this place, this family.
I don’t feel that I have a place in this world yet, not that many writers feel they ever have a place that isn’t in a book or outside of their writing world. I get homesick, I get lonely, but then I crack open a book or attempt a new character and suddenly I feel home. Sometimes the lack of a social life I have makes me sad, but then I look at my life and think this is who I am.
Sure I could be more social, and get out more. But this is my life, I write, I read, I breath. That is the life of a writer and I’ve come to accept that most days I like to be alone anyways. I love plugging in my headphones when I walk through the hallways just so I can avoid conversation.
Which always seems to surprise me because I never used to avoid conversation, if someone wanted to talk to me I was all over that opportunity. Now if I can avoid talking to people I’ve successfully made it through the day.
But this is what my life has become, I’m constantly questioning if I’m going the right way or the wrong way. Always wondering if people liked the old me more than the new me, if I like the new me better than the person I used to be. It’s hard to tell if the change one makes in their life is good or bad. Some days it feels good, other days not so much.