Wow! I really miss myself! It is crazy. I am taking two language classes, which was a TERRIBLE idea because I never have any time, and I am trying to balance friendships and a job and homework and a new (super amazing!!!!) relationship and the result is that I haven’t had much time to write poetry. This weekend was actually really a healthy experience because a) I got to relax without the spectre of school work for five minutes and b) I got to share some of the things I am crazy about with the person I am crazy about which was so nice
I am still so tired! I am still so lonely for myself! I am (maybe???) withdrawing from Arabic because I am a quitter, and also because I would like to not get up at seven every morning and have time to devote to my homework and my art and while Arabic isn’t a huge drain I do kind of hate it and by kind of i mean really, I really really hate it. You know you are sad when you are drinking gritty instant coffee, watching Supernatural, crying on the phone to your mother and binge eating valentine’s candy while thinking about going to the corner store and picking up a lot of macaroni and cheese but also thinking about buying three slim volumes of verse. If I have learned anything at college it’s that I sure do buy a lot of books when I have a small but steady income, especially after I have been crying. For some girls it is shoes. (For me, it is also shoes, so I am a wallet double-whammy.)
it is only Wednesday and already, I am tired. I had a medical scare last Wednesday. I had one Monday morning. (I’m fine! Both times!) Oof. I am struggling in my classes. It seems like every six months I say to myself, writing is not something I should focus on, I will become [x] instead and then I don’t write and before you know it I have been crying on the phone for an hour with my mom while she says, “baby, now you know what you need to do with your life,” which is what she told me the last time.
It is good to try new options. It is necessary. It is vital to consider the world. It is vital to be ambitious. But ambition is not a creek. It is not something we can build a bridge over. It’s a river and it runs cold and deep and wider than the Hudson beneath the Tappan Zee. It doesn’t just move mountains: it carves them the fuck out. My river does not run toward Harvard Law or Washington DC. I thought it could. My river is hungry and sometimes I drown in it. It seems strange to hold so much ambition, so much desire — for what? A nice partner, a nice apartment, a dog, a job that I do not have to take home with me. It hit me the other day: I could be a librarian! I love libraries. I love them passionately. And I felt bad, because shouldn’t I want to be Secretary of State? Wasn’t I working toward a life in national service?
I do not think I want those things. I think I wanted those things when I was depressed and the thought of a career ate me up and kept me going when I didn’t have it in me and when I was still trying myself on after being depressed. Who knew me? I don’t.