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When I left in June, the last item I tucked away in the car was a tomato seedling--one of the near hundred that had sprung out of the earth unprompted during the weeks before. We hadn’t sown new seeds, yet they sprouted, ready to try again after last year’s failed harvest.
Everything takes time. whether it be a short amount or the entirety of your existence. and now we enter a space where no matter how much practice we give ourselves we still feel unprepared.
I am quite fond of living on a stage. Curating my thoughts for consumption, I love seeing myself in the reactions of others.
But now the awkward interaction with a barista, the stress of an upcoming exam, the slow-motion neon lights in a crowded bar are mine alone, no longer processed and packaged stories to liven someone else’s day.
The longer I looked at my instagram, it became less of a museum, and more of a mausoleum. A distraught young girl haunting the hallways.
It is not only to follow or imitate
the tradition of our elders of yesterday
these hands
like those that came before us
reach the pure ether
where gods live
where I live
catching every fruitful tear
as if the answer to me
Four years ago, almost to the (very rainy) day, I walked down the Lawn with my mom. I remember peeking through every open door, turning away before I could make awkward eye contact with any of the occupants.
July 25th, 2021
I feel like I am floating after this untethering. Like a balloon headed for the clouds, in that dually melancholy and pleasing way. After this life change, I was expecting my reality to crash around me. This not-quite painful floating sensation has taken me off guard. Losing love is a funny thing.
A little girl holds my heart with both hands
runs through veins, arteries, jumping cell to cell hopscotch
she loves big stuffed panda bears and drawing
big pink hearts with thick markers all over my teeth
she stays inside on rainy days, when her tiny ears catch the sound
I stitch my dress back together with the same floss the doctor used to fasten the skin
Burnham gets our generational conundrum—do we curb our empathy because we fear it being turned into a mocking form of entertainment?