How quickly we forget...to write...for a year.
How very, very quickly each year passes, the acceleration so impossibly high, it's incalculable. The magnetic poetry on the mini-fridge is still arranged into messages about surviving the winter, but winter's long gone, the last wisps of the depressive state blowing off my body the way leaves blew off the trees "just yesterday." I can count the weeks on one hand til I'm home forever, forever equaling approximately three months, two of those spent in the Caribbean, one spent sleeping on a futon in an office. Next weekend: dining out. Next weekend: work. Next weekend: home for a refuel, a birthday, a show. Next weekend: Phi Mu Formal. Next weekend: Home free.
How quickly we discover adventure isn't leaving for some foreign land for six weeks, then rediscovering the comforts of home. The true adventure is packing boxes and relocating for good. Some days I feel ancient. Other days the truth reveals itself: My life is a mountain and I haven't even made it out of base camp yet. Possibilities are spread out in front of me. How terrifying, how thrilling.
How quickly we forget someone's listening. Or maybe we didn't forget, we just never noticed because we were so busy trying to catch someone else's attention.
How quickly we forget the power of words. In journalism we talk about how blogs are stupid. How writing about yourself is stupid. But Whitman wrote "Song of Myself" and last I checked, that's all about him. Last I checked, I cry every time I read it. Now I'm no Whitman but I reserve the right to call him 'Uncle Walt' and give this thing a try again.
"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable."
