Lace Doilies Look Like Snowflakes Don't They?

I remember spinning slowly in my room on the first day of the year. As a kid I constantly spun in circles, curious as to why I'd lose my balance and topple over after doing multiple 360s. I wanted to recreate that feeling; the satisfaction that came with losing control. The light-headedness. The frivolous rush. The I wonder how long I can make this last? sensation.
Unlike my juvenile experimentation, the turns and twists on that January morning only left me irritated and slightly nauseous. Had I trained myself to resist any loss of control over the years? I wondered if it was reversible. I wanted so badly to regain the comfort I had assimilated with the unfamiliar. Hard to believe we were playmates once. Anyway, that was close to 6 months ago.

Since then, I have

• moved into a run-down apartment (a trade-off for getting a room of my own, which at my age I have come to appreciate as a luxury)
• started the second half of my sad excuse of an education (the most valuable lessons in life/mathematics/politics/whatever can't be taught on PowerPoint)
• wrote a few sad songs which I have sung for people who cannot relate to the distilled sub-genres of hip hop and pop that have amassed disproportionate airplay (GUYS, synths do not save lives)

Family, friends and people are moving. Time is marching on its feet as well--linearly or cyclical, that is still up for fruitful debate. There is purpose and opportunity, but there is no distinction between the two--this, thus far, has become my current everyday struggle; aside from the usual affairs that befall a female 20-something melanchomaniac.

I feel like my life is a three-spaced wheel split into change I can control, change that bubbles in a dark cauldron with the intention to slither out of the sinister brew and into my life, and change that controls me. It spins, and spins, and spins.

Most current picture, taken within 3 months. In case you forgot what I look like.