Feels Like Home

Lying in the dry, dead grass, late on a chill but sunny day. The first of March, I realize, watching clouds drift by above me; and below me, miles and miles of open, flat land. Like a desert. A desert where whithered yellow runs forever, melting together with bright blue sky on the horizion, and the pale sun is the warmest thing I can touch or feel.
Neighborhoods flash by like pictures, bleeding by me like a blur of memories I can barely recall. Something happened. Once. Something that just slightly creeps in from the corner of my mind, like the sun rising over the earth, light falling across the moon.
I don't know when I fell in love with this city. I don't know how or why; such a cold thing, this city. So dirty and uncaring, so unlikely to forgive. Here, I must always have my eyes open, constantly watching, for if I shut them, even more a moment, this place will fold in around me, enclosing me in darkness, danger and fear. And yet there is nowhere on earth I'd rather be. This city is my friend, my family, my home. Most of all that I love or want resides here; it is a place of dreams and indescribably desires. A place to start a new life.
I turn onto my side, grass clinging to my clothes, twined through my hair, and I can see it in the distance. A hazy, gray block on the horizon, skyscrapers jutting into the blue, stabbing it. Reminding the rest of the world of how the west was won.

Flash forward one hour; we're cruising past leafless trees with rough, colorless bark; I see images, moving so quickly it's like they're running by me, rather than me rushing through them. I see children playing in the street, men walking dogs, women pushing strollers. I see drug pushers and hobos and businessmen with tidy suitcases and sharp suits. And the blood pounds in my veins, just to hear the music and remember, and to know that there's nothing like friendship.
There's nothing like freedom on a Monday afternoon when all the kids are in school; nothing like just being with somebody-the best friend you didn't know existed-and talking and relating and simply being real. Simply being there for one another. Something about it takes me back. I don't know what it is about this day, but something makes me remember other days, long gone by, when life was simpler, and I was younger, and all life's opportunities were just hovering out their, like fat, red apples just waiting to be plucked. Something feels like home.

Now the sun is setting in the west, ducking down behind far-off buildings and sinking into white-capped mountains. I'm sitting beside you, and I'm not sure I've ever felt like this before. Whatever this feeling is, I don't want it to go away. I don't want to wake tomorrow and find that these emotions we're sharing fled with the stars. Because I like this. The way it feels to have you beside me, against me, the warmth of your hands, the brush of your nose. Even when I close my eyes I can still taste you, hear your boyish laugh in my ear. And I've never felt so small, so delicate, so feminine. I've never felt so beautiful.
Maybe some day, that feeling will disappear. It might fade into the morning. But come what may, there shall never be something more romantic to me than listening to you breathe beneath the Denver sun, and stretching out on the grass in your arms. For now there is only this memory, and only this hope for tomorrow and the day that follows.
There is only a wildly beating, girlish heart that reaches out with inexperienced fingers to grasp smooth leather, and holds on tightly, until the sun is gone.

Ok, Newbie GO

Saturdays really clip along at the hobby shop. There's people pouring in and trickling out slowly, wandering through the ailes for hour after hour. Today, one woman approached the cash register and announced rather fecklessly that she had lost her husband.
"Caboose Hobbies: Stealing Husbands since 1938."
It's strange to be the one behind the counter for once. Strange to be the one counting the money out, worrying about giving back the incorrect amount of change rather than getting it. Strange to be the one fumbling with the bag while they stand there, holding the credit card. It's strange to be the one who has to have all the answers, and difficult to not have any.
The strangest part though, by far, is to be the 'new kid.' I've always been so comfortable with where I am and who I'm with, it's difficult for me to be in a learning situation, especially when no one is learning along side me. I can't help feel embarassed when I make a mistake or I have to ask my coworkers to explain something--again.However, I like to feel that I'm a fast learner, so I convince myself that I'm doing well. I've memorized most of my coworker's names, and I have the art of cashiering pretty well covered.
There are still a lot of bugs to work out of my not-so-skilled technique, but there's time to learn them.
Plenty of time.
Paul has worked at the hobby store for four years, Mara for five, Antje for God knows how long. I hopefully won't be there for more than two.Just two more. Two more to scan and smile, even when I don't want to. To scan and wish strangers a nice day, like a robot. Two years before I graduate and go away.
This is not my career. This is just my job.

Tales from the Institute Pt. 1

Welcome to my blog.
I don't need another website to manage--I can barely keep up with facebook and deviantart. And I don't even like the internet. Really. I hate wasting time on the internet; and yet here I am. Brilliant.
It's not like I need practice writing--I write enough as it is, and it's not as if I need someone's approval or their affirmation. Maybe I'm attention deprived.
It's more likely that I'm bored. This room is freezing. It's always freezing here. Except in the summer, when the AC stops working and the heat suddenly kicks in. It's impossible to sleep when it's so cold, so I surf the net. I should be paying attention, but I can't. So I surf the net. And I wind up making new accounts for sites like this one, looking at the clock and sighing, wishing 11:30 would come.
An hour and a half left. God, it feels like forever. But I think this place has changed my perception of time... I'm not sure how. I guess when you sit for four hours at a time, in one place, day after day, hours don't feel the same. They become minutes instead. Then the waiting is easier, the day is too short, and life itself seems like it's moving too quickly.
I've been here for almost two years now--two years in August--and I can't decide if I love it or hate it. I suppose I love parts of it. And they can help me. Still, it's so much money, and half the time I wind up not feeling good enough.
Regardless, in less than two years, I'll be leaving this place. Out into the proverbial "real world."
I'm not sure what the real world is anymore. My whole life people have been talking about the real world, but no one's clear about when it begins. I used to think that after I graduated high school I'd be in the real world. Or when I got a job. I've done both now, and still people tell me I have yet to get into the real world.
If this world is not real, then what is it?