Story about Intangible Things Essay -- Autobiography Essay, Personal Na

Intangibility used to be a counseling of mine. I lived for the things that were fleeting and impossible to categorize. I was free of the constraints of anything and anything, from language to thought. I found beauty in the things you could not touch and could not as yet grasp your mind around fully. Now I feel so far removed, I drive something to grab on to. I need something I can touch and k outright is real, solid, and there--something permanent. It is same being stuck in an Impressionist painting. Nothing is solid because everything is momentary and instantaneous. That was the sort of thing I once reveled in. However, things are similarly muddled now for enjoying intangibility. I evidently want comfort and firmness. I need a rock to clear on to or I am afraid I cannot grow back.The air was particularly sticky that day. That sticky air was also go with by a sticky feeling--a type of feeling that was foreign to me until that moment. I sauntered up the brick steps and doubt fully opened the front door to my house. Sweetie... rally upstairs, said my mom in a voice that was all too familiar. The word sweetie, when used by my mother, never meant good news. I walked up the stairs. There were fourteen of them, and I walked slow, taking in each and every small step. Eventually, I reached the top. I sat down on my experience indian-style and waited for the news I expected but did not want to hear. Kacie, your paternity and I are getting a divorce. When those words finally came unwrap of her mouth, it was as if I could have read the dictionary one vitamin C times and still be at a loss for words. every I felt was gaping holes where consciousness should be. It was like when you go to contact a movie and you interject out a few hours after blinking, lost, and wondering to you... ... is constantly radiating with happiness. The rain cloud that was lurking over my public address systems head for the past year has now been replaced with rainbow. And me, we ll, strange memories and waves of nostalgia tainted with deja vu have been hitting me frequently. Sometimes, I long for the days that my dad, mom, sister, and I would happen together--all four us, one happy family. I could try to blame it on the lack of sleep or nourishment, but I actually bet Ive developed the incision Pan Syndrome, or rather the Peter Pan Syndrome already encoded within me has simply grown and developed, like a small tumor of now epic proportions. When am I exit to let go and truly grow up? Nevertheless, every now and then I look back at my life and come across a inane spot where I lost myself, like skips on a scratched CD. Even though Im happy, that blank spot never fails to hurt like hell.