And they pull me back in.

Hey.

What's going on? With my life? What am I doing, writing on this blog that I haven't visited in eight months? On a laptop that's been chipped and cracked down to its bare bones? With unchecked notifications on the Facebook that I begrudgingly made four years ago? Why am I typing away when I know three people at most will see this (and I know exactly who), without a clear purpose as to what I'm really trying to say?

I'll tell you why. Feelings. My feelings are why I write.

My feelings are equivalent to this post: no clear subject; plot; direction. But, that's ok. Both these feelings and this post will not be forgotten, nor will they be concise. They're everywhere. 


I felt like I needed to write. I've felt like I've needed to write for a while now. It never really crossed my mind that unearthing dear old Gomezziblog was what I needed.

It didn't cross my mind until a downhill-sloped, out-of-breath-conversationed, took-longer-than-I-thought-it-would stroll down to Main Street with Sam. It was the last day of the carnival, where the entire population of Beacon Falls inexplicably congregates around the Fire House. The carnival in and of itself isn't impressive by any means. The rides haven't been inspected by engineers in years, decades even. There is never a seat to be found. The fried dough you order never seems as good as the person's before your's. But the carnival isn't entirely a noun, it's a verb. To carnival. To walk across the carnival grounds and say hi to nearly every friend in the sophomore class. To take a picture in front of Ms. Shove's band to earn extra credit on your English final.

Anyway, Sam and I passed the carnival as she led me to a spot behind the "Fun" House, which looks more terrifying than fun. At least I've always thought so. There was a ground of red bricks, stone benches, and trees that reminded me all too much of our school's courtyard. I thought to myself This is a pretty space. But we didn't sit down. We didn't pause. She led me down a metal staircase where the toes sticking out of my flip-flops were met with sand. Water streamed ahead of us. A beach? In Beacon Falls?


Well, beach is probably too big of a stretch for inland Connecticut. It was a short patch of sand that met the Naugatuck river.

And Sam and I just stood there, backs resting against the silver fence. Sam keeps a journal that she writes daily entries in. I've always kind of been jealous, of how she can just jot down her feelings of the day's events, and it's there forever. She'll never forget the disbelief on our faces when Nick guessed the correct date on the milk carton in an intense game of Dicecapades. She'll never forget our wildly inappropriate responses to Why Did the Chicken.

I talked about my wanting to write again. How I never do anymore. How I feel like I need to. And that's when Gomezziblog entered the conversation.

That's why I'm here right now.

I wrote a little too much than I planned to. I started this post at 9:17 PM. It's now 10:00 PM on the nose. And there's still so much I want to talk about. I want to talk about graduation. I want to talk about how I'm sort-of-almost-kind-of-not-really-but-I-will-be a senior. I want to talk about the goodbyes I'll inevitably have to give. I want to talk about how I've changed in the past three years. I want to talk about my future. I want to talk about the present.

But somehow I got caught up in writing about the past. Woops.

Until tomorrow,
Eric.