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

Intangibility used to be a focus of mine. I lived for the things that were fleeting and impossible to categorize. I was free of the const come downts of anything and everything, from language to thought. I build beauty in the things you could not touch and could not even grasp your mind around fully. Now I feel so far removed, I read something to grab on to. I need something I can touch and know is real, impregnable, and there--something permanent. It is like 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 too muddled now for enjoying intangibility. I simply want comfort and firmness. I need a rock to hold on to or I am afraid I cannot come back.The demarcation was particularly sticky that day. That sticky air was also accompanied by a sticky feeling--a type of feeling that was foreign to me until that moment. I sauntered up the brick steps and doubtfull y opened the front approach to my house. Sweetie... Come upstairs, said my mom in a voice that was all too familiar. The word sweetie, when used by my mother, never meant good intelligence. 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 bed indian-style and waited for the news I expected but did not want to hear. Kacie, your father and I are getting a divorce. When those words finally came out of her mouth, it was as if I could have read the dictionary one hundred times and still be at a loss for words. All I felt was gawp holes where consciousness should be. It was like when you go to see a movie and you come out a few hours later blinking, lost, and wondering to you... ... is constantly radiating with happiness. The rain cloud that was lurking over my dads head for the past year has now been replaced with rainbow. And me, well, strange memories and waves of nostalgia t ainted with deja vu have been hitting me frequently. Sometimes, I long for the old age that my dad, mom, sister, and I would spend together--all four us, one happy family. I could try to blame it on the lack of sleep or nourishment, but I rattling think Ive developed the Peter 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 going to let go and truly grow up? Nevertheless, every now and accordingly I look back at my life and come across a blank spot where I lost myself, like skips on a scratched CD. Even though Im happy, that blank spot never fails to hurt like hell.