***Here I go again with bold writing... Today's post inspired by Hellolyndsey's latest blog post, "The Evolution of Hellolyndsey."***
The past few years have been more recognizably considered the "defining years" of my life. With small changes in the length of my hair and my style of dress, I have likewise been on quite the distinguishable journey with my emotions and how I carry myself. And as I press forward, onto my more definitive years of adulthood, little traces of who I was then follow me now, reminding me of where I have been, and the person I want to be.
Three years ago, I would not have been so easily persuaded to walk away from a fight or to ignore the small things. While I cannot always suppress said feelings with my younger brother--natural sibling rivalry, I suppose--I am better about not saying every thought that passes through my mind. Three years ago, I was a homebody, and my only form of rebellion to aspects of life I pretended I enjoyed, was by dying the bottom-most layer of my hair blue with cheap, jarred, semi-permanent hair dye. This, of course, eventually faded to green and I found myself too lazy to even buy more of the blue gunk to cover the mess. My punk style from middle school had yet to leave my wardrobe, and I was falling to some of the more trendy style-mergers of the time: plaid shirts and Converse shoes. I wore the shoes down to the soles, learning every block and alley to my hometown in existence at the time, and even tracing my steps through the dirtier parts of Atlanta. I would even adventure through wooded areas and endanger myself near train tracks just for a good picture. Photography and writing had consumed me in ways I did not conceive possible at the time.
Two years ago, I had no intentions to think seriously of college. I knew it was in my future, but I did not bother stressing over it. My photography was advertised more cleverly during this time, and it was from that I discovered the downfall to advertising: business. My art was no longer art, but a service, and it was shortly after I cut off the requests and all offers to take pictures. I quickly lost interest in the news photography department of the school newspaper. My inspiration and will dwindled and all I could do was turn back to my true love, writing. It was from two years on the school newspaper I knew in what direction I wished to write and I knew what I had to do to get there. I took the precautions my friends had made and took the right steps to get to a place perfect for me. After graduation, I packed my bags, and, for the first time, moved far away from home.
Over the past year, I spent time in a new town, and felt more alone than I had in a long time. But it was not the type of loneliness one writes in a cliché song. It was a peaceful time to myself to contemplate and learn. The people I met along the way only made my time there more enjoyable and taught me more than they probably realized. It was a place my new Converse were allowed to explore. A town full of a different kind of life and breeding. I took more pictures there than I had at home in just one year. I found out just what it means to have a personal style. I found it in my clothes and in my art. If it were not for that town, I would have stayed in a rut and would only be dreaming, never doing. There is a difference between taking a rejuvenating vacation somewhere and coming home, and planting your feet in new ground. That town is my second-home, and I found out this summer I cannot leave it so easily and never look back. I had to fight just so I could return.
Life moves forward even if I am not there to witness it. And I am sure I have missed a lot with the friends I made in that town. However, I am glad I got away from the coffee addiction and textbooks and came back to familiarity where life moves in strange patterns, but I am always comfortable, and it never moves so quickly I feel left behind. This is home. And when I have to go back to school and use my brain for more than the sloth routine I have become accustomed here, I will be thankful for the chance to miss home again. On campus, I find inspiration and surmounts of motivation. And when I go back, I can only hope for a rekindling of the fire life lit under me while I was there. I hate leaving, but it is not forever. In a couple of weeks, it will simply be a repeat of what I experienced last year, when I left for one of the biggest moves of my life.