ireland, a month in
10:24 p.m. || Wednesday, Apr. 30, 2003
I am lonely and tired. It's 10:24 in Ireland and the room is cold. I miss people, even people I hate, people with American voices and American faces.
Stupid America, with its fucked up politics and its pollution, its dirty messed up people. I would live somewhere else, but there is nowhere else.
Carmel and Kate are talking in adult tones in the next room, and whenever I walk in to ask a question I feel like a little child who's been told to go to bed just as the party begins, rejected, left out.
I don't belong anywhere, so far.
I miss the ocean, and old friends. I miss knowing where roads lead to, where the good restaurants are, where home is.
I keep writing apologies to people I haven't talked to for too long, because I want to be sorry. But I'm not, and when I'm finished writing them in my head I scrap it all and wish that they'd say they were sorry, instead. But some people are never sorry, because they don't dwell on moments long enough to be.
I find that Irish voices and the smell of [what I think is] peat burning is not enough to keep me happy when all I can think about is Ocean beach on a warm saturday, the blues of the oceans and the oranges of the clay mountains melting together with the sky.
I wish she'd write, at least once in a while. It's cold tonight.
C