There are little bumps under my shoes
I, like many internet-bred teenagers of the 2010s, had a pretty thick Lana Del Rey phase. Right along with Marina (and The Diamonds), Lorde, and Arctic Monkeys, a lot of my personality was born and bred from the kind of music that you’d find swimming in almost every Tumblr user’s “xxsadnessxx” playlist on 8track. It was mourning a wasted youth that you were currently living, wishing you could be experiencing life instead of lingering in the magazine-cutout-coated walls of your childhood bedroom.
I first dreamt of Paris at the spritely age of nine. I wish I could say it was because I had experienced something infinitely more poetic than the truth, but to be completely honest, it was after I’d first seen Ratatouille. Yeah, that one. The Pixar movie about the rat who cooks.
During this quarantine, Netflix has added a lot of new movies. Out of boredom and curiousity, I of course had to check them out. And, while on my journey through all the biggest movies available, I realized something.
When I stopped wanting—wanting to work, make, feel, be—I started sleeping a lot. I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a kind of limit on how much one person can sleep. Even after hitting that limit more than a few times throughout my life, I still couldn’t tell you what it is. I haven’t done any testing. All I know is that it exists. A thin line, dictating your ability to sleep and to not.
In scary times like these, we naturally want to be near our loved ones. A lot of us twenty-somethings, out of fear for ourselves, situations, or family members, flocked to our childhood homes to stay (safely) close to them. Some of us are also college students, in which case there wasn’t much of a decision to be made on whether or not we’d be coming home.