I think I am becoming less and less concerned with obtaining superficial indicators of status on this campus. Good.
I’m a little scared every time I see you, but not because you’re intimidating. The fears are my own, flares of “What does he think of me?”
When we begin talking, I feel safe: this is our space, and I don’t care what’s going on around us as long as I’m with you. Do you ever feel the same way? Enough to choose me one day?
It didn’t really count and it was in many respects a dumb idea. Maybe I helped you become a better person, regain your confidence, think about God, I don’t know. In that case I would say I did a good thing. But I realized in the following weeks that too much of it was driven by curiosity rather than actual interest, and it all just seems more and more distasteful as time goes on.
I don’t think of myself as ever having been in a relationship.
Human containers precariously sloshing anger and stress and bitterness within them tilt around me. Frustration I see reflected in the eyes of too many.
Yet I spread as free-floating particles electrified with wonder: the world fascinates.
I love to sing, so I’ll be able to perform eventually.
I love French, so I’ll be able to go to France eventually.
I think this is a positive and in fact true mentality that I will adopt toward all my endeavors. It’s worked in the past despite all my fears, and having overcome the obstacles to doing what I love in the past should reinforce that I can overcome them in the future too.
Today, I read and touched the original manuscripts of Charlotte Brontë’s unfinished story “Emma” and one of John Keats’s love letters to Fanny Brawne. Brontë penciled in cursive on these very pages. Keats recorded in ink the futility of his approaching death as a young man, and the words seemed all the more heartbreaking when communicated through his handwriting. It is easy to forget that these writers were real people, and I am awestruck by the opportunity to recall their stories as human beings.