Last night at about 2am I was laying in my Aunt's much too-comfortable bed when I realized it has been one week. A week since leaving Prague. It hit like a brick in my chest, and I had to just stop for a second. Think.

I like that I remember moments at the most obscure times. I am here, on Beaver Island, in the middle of Lake Michigan, with my mother and Aunt. Sometimes I want to burst out to them, "There was this one time, at the pizzaria down the street..." but I hold back, keep them floating in myself. I write some down.

It's exciting to be back, to have reality again, but also disheartening. In Prague I didn't have to work for anything. All was a game, relationships were so easy because we were all we had. We didn't put up many fronts. Here, I have to chisel at people. I have to knock of little pieces then make sense of them. Usually I don't want to.

My mother missed me so much, all she can do is talk and talk. Sometimes it's the same question three days in a row, the same celebrities from People magazine, the same comments about my hair. I understand the needing to communicate, but it's hard to tell her I'm the exact opposite. That all I've done for three months straight is talk to people, and now all I want is silence. All I want is sleep, and the beach, and books. Notebooks.

But in 52 minutes I get my first real massage. I'm nervous, it's such a weird thing. Hello, rub my back. I'll give you money. So awkward. But I neeeeed it. Walking into the library I could feel the knot in the center of my shoulder blades with each step. Hopefully it will disappear.