Sore

I'm hoping this 6am post might relieve the heavy weight of dysphoria sinking into my shoulders. I never thought such an uncomfortable dread could startle me awake while it's still cold, still dark, still terribly Florence outside. Why am I so sad so suddenly?

I've made memories here—such warm, scared, sweet, excited, hopeful, loving memories. Memories that no one outside of Florence could ever get a taste of. Pictures mean nothing. 

No one knows the soaring skies I've seen behind San Lorenzo on my way back home. The bitter warmth of prosecco in my mouth as I’ve laughed, then sobbed at jokes made at the potluck table in our apartment. The delight of hearing, “Prego” after thanking the Carrefour lady in Italian and stuffing my bag with new groceries. For the first time, I won't have anybody to discuss these moments with when I leave. I've made my fondest memories here... but they rest lonely in my head. 

I'm scrambling to keep them safe. I think I'm terrified that they'll whisper goodbye and slip out the door just as quickly as they came. But of course they won't last forever. I'm simply hurt that Florence might not be as colorful, as beautiful, as terracotta pretty in my mind with time. But how selfish I am!

I took Beloit for granted. I know it now, and there's no way to undo it. I've let some of my closest friends slip away, a cruel mistake. Why am I so bad at keeping in touch? Florence has a powerful ring to it. Just the word makes me rabid with joy. It has such a powerful sensation that it's reduced even the faces I felt most alive with at Beloit to mere specks in my head. Sometimes though, when I sit down with my bowl of rice, those faces come tumbling back just to slam me hard and whisk me back. Every memory of Beloit is fresh; I've simply been covering it with handfuls of gravel. I remember, but I don't want to. 

I'm abroad, shouldn't I feel like I am?

So Beloit’s frosty air still lingers, and I haven't found a way to give it much warmth. I've only shunned it, thinking I'll eventually return, thinking it'll be the same place I last saw it as. Wrong, obviously. 

I loved Beloit so sorely. But I jumped at my first chance of getting away, and I don't know if I'll love it the same way in a month. The place is now filled with aliens. 

Is Florence doing this to me or am I doing it to myself? All I know is that the summer shutters have closed in on me.