I think I've been overloaded with surrealism the past five months. At first, I could not believe I was going to Lithuania. Then I couldn't believe I was in Lithuania, then I couldn't believe how much I loved my roommates. Then I couldn't believe I was on a train to Moscow. Then I couldn't believe I was looking at the little closet where Raskolnikov was said to have taken his murderous axe from. There have been so many moments where I have thought, can this really be where I am? Have I really done [fill in the blank]? It cannot be.
The other day I was thinking about the fact that I am not the first to feel this way. There have been a number of occasions where I have seen my dad sit in wonderment at where he is. Perhaps that is why I often feel this way.
The past two days, and I predict the next week will be the same, I have been in this constant state -- wondering how I got here, and I either cannot or refuse to believe that I will leave here. I don't get it. The things that have become normal will never be the same. The things that were normal will not be the same. How am I to talk about this? How am I supposed to write about this, even though I have been trying for the whole 4 months to either document or process the stories of these months.
Well, off to studying!
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