Another late night blog. Eyes starting to get heavy, feel like I’m talking to myself. Reaching out to the internet is starting to feel like little more than a personal reflection instead of an outlet. Is there an echo in here?

Funny how if you think, this blog isn’t so different from my new place. Just me, talking out loud to an empty space. I think I might even hear an echo if I listen hard enough. A world of bustling people, heads down, social interactions, spilling on topics and ideas, coming together and drifting apart, communities, blogs, forums, people walking their dogs and throwing frisbees and driving in and out and coming and going. Inside here, my thoughts alone, trying to establish something, trying to find myself, to search for friendship, noticing, recognition, haunting, old places left behind.

Here I can check the stats. I can see that no one has visited the page since its second day. I can see how traffic comes and where from and how frequent. Inside though, if I feel like I’m being watched, I can’t check.

If I feel like there might be movement that’s unnatural, I can’t look at a bar graph.

It’s not paranoia. It’s simpler than that. I’m a young girl, kind of pretty if I spend enough time I guess, I’m on my own, living alone, in a new world. It feels like there’s predators in shadows, that if I’m not careful I can still get hurt. I’m twenty four, well. Twenty five now, but I still need to be careful. And I don’t have Daddy here to

A girl’s just got to be careful.

So I lay on the floor, wrapped up in blankets with pillows to stay snug, and I can’t sleep. I lay for two hours, nothing. Clouds covering the moon, the starless night. A mind wanders, seeks out company, finds it in the stranger, and as with all strangers remains wary, instinct holding back.

Everyone at some point in their lives have moved into a new house, somewhere at some point alien. Be it as newborns, collegiate teens, newlyweds, hippies, freshly dead, everyone has met that stranger. Has it ever been answered if that stranger is a part of the house or a part of one’s self?

Is this the stranger I’ve known? Is this stranger my old friend? Is this stranger loneliness? Grief? Fear?

Maybe the presence behind the posters isn’t a stranger at all, but memory, wearing new clothes, finally growing facial hair, a couple years added on and weight removed, knocking on your door asking you to coffee sometime, wanting to catch up, telling you he’s changed.

Maybe he has. Maybe he hasn’t. At root, I think change is scary. But there’s a reason you ran away, and it might be best if you just ignore him.

So back to the blankets, back to my pillows. Curled up tight, windows cracked to let in the new night breeze, the dry smell of spring flowers and melting mountain snow, denying what once was, fists against my ears

I think I might even hear an echo if I listen.