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Dec. 15th, 2000 | 09:16 pm
mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
music: Savage Garden - Crash & Burn

I'm going to Italy in two and a half weeks. It still doesn't seem like a reality.

The first time I went to Italy, everyone who I knew who was going was in my Latin class, and we had numbers on the board counting down until the day we left, and my mom and I were shopping and packing and planning so much for a month in Europe.

I haven't even thought about packing yet.

I wonder what it is about time... Maybe it's that going to Italy isn't some brand new thing that I'm more than a bit scared of this time... it's another country which I've been to before and we have a well-planned itinerary and I know everything will come together, despite all of the people in my travel group who seemed so hopelessly confused.

I wonder if this independence and self-confidence is because I live in New York, by myself really (even though there are 3 other people who share my appartment), or if it's because I've actually done quite a lot in my eighteen and a half years on this planet. Or maybe if it's just because it's the way I always was but I needed to be away from home to discover it in myself... or realize to what extent it dominates myself or something. I don't know. I'm making no sense.

My mother told me once that to get along in life, you have to learn to depend on yourself because you are the only person you can be sure will be there to make things happen and make them work. I was skeptical at the time, not that I needed to depend on myself, but whether I could. And now, even though I don't totally depend on myself for everything, if I had to, I know that I could. Life isn't handed to us on a silver platter with each course in a neat little self-contained packet. Life is messy, and nobody else sits and sorts it all out and prioritizes it for us. So we have to do it... and I've realized now that I can and that makes things ever so much better.

Sorry about that... I tend to drift into random worlds of Liz-thought that sometimes sound like bitter diatribes or something like that. I'm in a thoughtful mood right now, and as Virginia Woolf likes to point out by her writing style, thoughts do not go in neat perfect sensible order. And sometimes trying to make them make sense in writing, when they're just random thoughts about life doesn't work too well. So yes. I believe that was all I had to say. (Of any sort of substance at least).

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