somuchrain

There's a feeling of quiet unease thrown over everything now. I'd love to talk about it with him, but it would end in embarrassed silence or more tears. I think I'll take my father's methods and pretend nothing every happened. Back to the cheerful stage Charlie making rude jokes and tickling the children. God, I just made myself sound like a perverted uncle or something.

It's just a token of how everything is here. It all feels staged and so expectant. All these nearly identical houses in the middle of their own barren fields of poorly growing grass. Because of the trees cut to build the development there's a heavy wind that blows about the hill constantly. The saplings planted in all the new yards only a few months ago bend down and bear the weight the houses don't even notice. I'm not trying to sound like some nature romantic here, I just get overly analytical of symbols when I'm not particularly happy. There a dull dissatisfaction in everything here that lives itself out in my constantly starting books, quickly replacing them with another. I'm never particularly hungry but constantly move for a bite of this or that; I constantly have four drinks going at once. I work on different parts of different papers for a few moments at a time.

I try and stay away from the upstairs. Geraldine, the father's wife (I think they've been married now), isn't particularly offensive there's just an unspoken disapproval of everything I do and am. I don't care much, as I don't like her much, it's just uncomfortable. The thing about moving away from home, I think I'm just realizing after half a decade, is not that I miss home, but that the home continues along quite fine without me, and without upkeep it just forgets me. I no longer have a room, I don't recognize anything. There's a Bouguereau print that's been in the living room of every house I've ever lived in with my family that I found today, glass broken, and thrown in a corner in the basement.