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It seems like all I do is disappoint lately. Breaking down in front of a close friend at 6 am on a Monday morning. Spam-calling everyone possible in my contact list for some emotional support. Spending my first Eucharist at the Episcopal Center sitting on the restroom floor, tears dripping like a leaky pipe from the cracks of my fingers.
It has come to the point—where I’m reading Walden by Thoreau of my own volition, and kind of vibing with him. Tuning into the same frequency, as one of my friends would put it.
—just so I could experience it all over again.
“How can a person know everything at eighteen but nothing at twenty-two?” - Nothing New, Taylor Swift
based on the Kübler-Ross model (five stages of grief)
“Emma is not a person; Emma is a place that you get stuck in; Emma is a pain that you cannot erase.”
Birthdays! They happen once every 365 days, in celebration of the earth completing another orbit around the sun since your last birthday, and coincidently, happen to be the one thing I can never remember. After a certain age threshold, birthdays seem to start creeping up on you, and before you realize it, another year has already passed. Believe it or not, we are roughly a month away from inscrutable 2022, which is 10 years away from 2012, shared by the sci-fi disaster film of the same name where the world nearly came to an end.
You stare at the blank screen, and the blank screen stares back at you. It’s 3 AM on a Monday night and you have a paper due in the morning. You keep searching for the right word, the right phrase, the right way to start, and you wonder when introductions have become so intimidating, when they are the only section you glance at for assigned readings. You type a single word: “the”, because something is better than nothing, but then you press backspace, and you end up where you started. The blank page, and you wondering if nothing can still be better than nothing.
The squirrels, oh my, all the squirrels.
Wilson is, for the lack of a better word, weird. Not the gym, the dorm—or you might know it as the place where all the basketball players live. Time and time again, my home away from home has defied my expectations, even in areas where I thought I had none.
Some days, I wake up and hold a staring contest with the ceiling, lying in bed until I blink and start all over again. Other days, I stare at the sink mirror for a little too long, until someone walks through the door and I remember this isn’t my own bathroom. I’m not quite sure when it started, or if it even has a start. The best I can do is pin it to different parts of my life: maybe I haven’t been sleeping enough, maybe I just need to walk outside more, or maybe I’m just forgetting to feel the sunshine.
“I'm waiting for it, that green light, I want it”
