Louisiana nostalgia (chat tbh I just wanna yap)

Didn't want to give this note a name as it seemed insignificant. The my back is on fire and my neck feels numb as my body contorted into the strangest of positions to try to find any desperate way to get comfortable. I could feel we were close to home. The road got bumpy, rocking me to sleep as we went up and down. I could sense it, I could smell it in the air. Whether I liked it or not, Louisiana was home. An old home sure, but like your house you lived in with your parents before you moved out, it doesn't matter if your mind is wiped and your old bedroom is cleaned out and turned into a dusty office or a beach themed guest bedroom, that doesn't change the truth. I think this trip made me realize how blinded (and probably still blind) I am by nostalgia and sentimentality. I love Louisiana. I love the quiet atmosphere, I love the sugarcane fields that touch the horizon, I love the ancient roads that haven't been replaced in years and how the pierce the bottom of my feet. But I also love the way Louisiana has, like my dad's side of the family, still love me, but hate what I've grown up to be.
I simply don't the Louisiana can accept who Florida has raised me to be. I talk to loud, I show too much stomach, and worse I don't care to look between the lines of what anyone is saying anymore. Back way when I lived here, there was always an anxious feeling in my gut. I always felt that there was a completely different conversation going on in the air that I just wasn't able to catch (which there was). Now that I've gotten older I can find these conversations everywhere, and the fun part is, I don't have to react to them. U don't have to! I have no obligation! That was the beauty of leaving Louisiana. Losing obligation. No obligation to put the not-so-long skirt back on the rack, no obligation to give an apology you don't mean, no obligation to be friends with people I'd rather avoid (though, I still try to love thy neighbor), no obligation to hear others tell me what God thinks about me, because I can just listen myself. The family that cusses, and lies, and kicks, and screams at each other, can't tell me that I worship, lord shield us, the devil because I dye my hair, wear a skirt above my fingertips, or show CLEAVAGE! And even if they do, that's not what bothers me. They can whisper in a corner and writhe in embarrassment and shame of me.
As my father said, "You clean your side of the street, and I'll clean mine,"

I went on a field trip to the Orlando ballet the other day and I spoke with a girl. We talk about artsy stuff, though I feel after talking about concepts for so long my meaning gets mucked up, she seemed to be able to read me mind pretty well. Unless she didn't, in that case she's a wonderful actress and should look into theatre more. Anyway, I told her about the, "portrait," or, "picture of Dorian Gray," I always forget which. I told her about how one of the main characters, Basil I think his name was, refused to show off the painting he made. He said that the painting showed far to much of himself, the good and the ugly, the secrets men shouldn't vocalize (which I'm sure they have many). He said he couldn't reveal that much to his audience. I think that I am Louisiana's painting of Dorian Gray. I am everything Louisiana wishes it could say and do."I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit" though I would argue that 'sin' in this conext relates more to a societal, no, social sin.

I bet after reading all of this you've forgotten I'm still rocking back and forth in the back seat of this car, my neck is snapped in half and frankly my legs are twisted in a way that you would mistake them for pretzels and attempt to sprinkle salt on them, which frankly I'd be adversed to if you don’t mind. At that Orlando Ballet we also got to see the WIP of a composer's work called "Confronting Genius,". It was about how back in ancient Rome or Greece or whatever, they believed creativity, or genius, wasn't apart of you necessarily, It was a spirit like a genie or fae that gave you ideas. If that's true, I guess my genie, or fae, or fairy godmother or father sensed that I missed them. I'm a writer sure, a very lazy one, but once a writer- always a writer. My genius has whispered to me here and there, especially when I need a new dungeons and dragons character here and there, but I think they've noticed that in recent times I haven't answered as often. It's not personal and I am sorry. It's just been exhausting with life and school, and my last 2 wips being deleted didn't help either. I didn't have writers block, I have a deadlier killer, drive block. I'm not out of the woods yet, but I think my genius sensed that in this purgatory where I can't sleep but I can't move either, it could tell that in my vulnerable state I'd be It's captive audience. Though it poked me and whispered my name like I was a mother to a child who had wet the bed that night, it really didn't take me much convincing for me to start vomiting it's words down. In the art piece the artists typically referred to their genius as an entity that would come quickly and whisper it's unique secrets then quickly run away, the artist having to grasp it before running away from them. I think my genius was glad to find me because we are awfully similar; lazy, and sentimental. The plus is that it doesn't run away, it just murmurs it's ideas to me and waits till I have time to listen. The downside is that, like me, they lose steam quickly.

Even as a write I'm having to shake my genius for the last grain of words it has at the bottom of it's mind. I'm glad that in complaining about old cajun people in Louisiana and over analyzing my own teenage angst,

I could prove to myself that I can still write.