I'm thinking tonight about how disconnected I seem to be from things that, up until a short while ago, were such an integral part of my existence.
It's almost exactly the same feeling I get when I drive past my grandmother's old house. The memories of that house are all inside me, and I can dredge them up whenever I want to, but I guess I don't really see the point right now.
I remember being in that place, belonging in that place, so long ago, but I don't belong there anymore. There's a definite disconnect between my memories of that life and the sense of self that I use to define me at present.
My memories of being in that house, no matter how moving or vivid those memories might be, those memories will never and can never come close to recreating the experience of being there. That feeling of home that I felt even more strongly than I did with my actual home.
Similarly, that dark place inside my own head, where I spent so much of the recent past, while certainly less tangible than the old house where my grandmother would always have cookies to eat and stories to tell and ABC macaroni in a big pink bowl whenever I wanted it, that dark place was as real to me as any physical place could ever be.
And, like a physical place, it's possible to leave, either by force or by choice. That dark place is not me and that means that I can exist separately from it.
My mind drives past, and I remember what it was like in that place. What once seemed to be such a huge part of my life I now look at from the outside and it just seems so fucking small and unsubstantial. I think about how if I were to go back inside, those walls would once again become my world. My entire existence would be contained within those walls which would comfort me and make me feel so at home.
Problem is, I'm not sure that I belong there anymore.