My mother is sleeping behind me while I struggle to type softly. The room I'm in is dark, minus the bluish glow emitting from the moniter and cold with a light musty scent. I've slept horribly throughout the day and now, sleep evades me again. I am in the state of my birth, a mere block away from my first home. Tracing memories of my early life is difficult, so few exist in my present state.

When I was picked up by my sister's godmother (a woman whom is quite like my sister; lively, messy and has a profound ardor for liqour), I peeked through the window of the car. I saw a city that had seen many, many days. Streets were dirty, grafitti caked on withering billboards written in Spanish, (I suppose the Cuban community still thrives...) aged cars. Although it was not conventionally beautiful, it was humming with character. There's something about this place; or really, most places I travel to-- I end up feeling more at home there than in a community that has been mine for well over a decade.

Upon arriving to my temporary residence, I saw that the decor had scarcely changed since my last visit in 2001. Yellowing photos up to 30 years old hanging on the walls. Odd. The interior of my home has had complete plastic surgery in five years. Ma put in new light fixtures just a few weeks ago.

It all got me to thinking. Back at home, whether it be called the South or just a more modern place; everything is built to be later destroyed. Houses are built with D-grade (at best) building materials. Nobody brags about punching a hole through the wall because just about anyone can do it. Relationships are built on a similar, shabby material--Only to break for trivial insecurites; whether it be because he didn't put the tolit seat down or because he went down on a hooker during his vacation in Tijuana. Everything is overpriced and nothing is really worth that much. Within ten minutes, I realized that people up here are more polite, dress more respectably and carry guitars everywhere.

It was such an obvious change, being in a place where all of the homes had to be at least 50 years old, some of which being even over 100! And people still live in them, despite termite problems or peeling paint or whatever. The idea of my house living to be just 30 is ROFL-worthy. Given the frail quality of the economy in Florida, nobody will want to buy property that is sold three times it's value price. With all the good reason, mind.

I feel disgusted because I know that I too have become victim to this disposibility. The couple that I'm staying with have been married for something like 50 years. Supposedly, I'm an intelligent person; but I just can't see how two people can stay together that long anymore. I've been exposed so long to people disposing one another; in friendships, in romantic relationships...the entire concept no longer makes sense to me anymore. I'm not even pinning this on my parents divorce, because it seemed to make a little more sense just a year ago. I know that I would like to get married if I met the right person, but I no longer think I'll find the right person. Or rather, a person that will suit every stage of my life. What's happened to me? I've always been cynical, but this is really bad. Why don't I have faith in people anymore?

I wish I could meet people that were brought up completely different from me. That, or at the very least, fought their unattached upbringing. I need to learn how to be like that, instead of being completely remorseless and unfeeling for other people.

I don't even know if I'm making sense. I don't even know if it matters. And I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that despite all of this, I'm still pretty content with life. I'll consider it a good thing, at least until I've hurt someone with my lack of compassion.

Hmm, now that I think of it, I think I do have liscence to call it a bad thing...

Oh well. I'm still happy. Leave me be. I'll figure it out. Eventually.