holidays, ready, go!

I'm deeply impressed by the ability of regeneration possessed by my organism. It was just last Friday that I passed my last exam in this term and out of such an amount of stress I would have borne if I'd only had something to bear at hand. But seeing M. on Saturday, the night of movies and endless talking in a cozy smelling A.'s house, and coming home at 7 a.m. through the vague Warsaw, plus Sunday, filled with sleep with a break for vanilla ice-cream - that was all enough. I'm ready again. I may still sleep awkwardly, in a wrong pace and breath, but the strings are loose, they actually sway as gently as a hammock – the hotbed of the debauchery, where my books, movies and sleep turns out boring at times – something not to believe in only a few days ago.
I'm still in the city, waiting for some papers at the linguistics that are already awaited at the psychology. Surprisingly, I don't mind. No doubt that the flimsy shadow in the "garden" by the University of Warsaw Library doesn't even resemble the surroundings of our house in the country ("a genuine extension of myself" – JW), but it does have some green grass, sparrows and gentle wind that distracts the water drops from the fountain straight to my skin. That's fairly enough and that compensates taking a crowded streetcar and my dense, heated flat. And when it nonetheless starts to become unbearable, there's always a cool hidden place in the Muranów movie theater, where I can reduce my being to the senses of sight and hearing, silently admiring Juliette Binoche in the "Flight of the Red Balloon".
My solitude is weird. Weird because satisfactory and at the same time lined with fear and anxiety, like an unwise lonely stroll of a wild deer chased by hounds. On the surface it's nice, it doesn't require needless words when I have nothing to say. I have a free hand. But I can easily tell it's bitter as well, there's a strong sense of insecurity and longing.
But. I decided I'm through with the mortifying analyses of all sorts of my relationships, through with searching my mistakes and oversights, and most of all, their sources that might lie within my upbringing, genes or environment. The official reason of my resolution is lack of conclusions, the emptiness that was supposed to be filled with lessons learnt. Another thing is that I'm simply tired, tired to the point where I'm ready to plead guilty for now and forever, cover myself up with a quilt and sleep as soundly as the guilty one who has nothing to lose – a sign that the self-mortifying ceremonial has gone too far. Anyway, I feel completely excused since my mother, immersed in the trance of removing the strawberry stalks, said that when one has a character like mine, it's no wonder they don't have "much acquaintances". It's ever surprising, how we resemble Silver and her mother in JW's "Lighthousekeeping": "The eccentricities she described as mine were really her own. She was the one who hated going out. She was the one who couldn't live in the world she had been given. She longed for me to be free, and did everything she could to make sure it never happened."
Still, it felt strange when on Saturday morning I said "bye" to A., my groupmate, knowing that I'd see her again in three months time. Well. I may be antisocial but I'm always sentimental.