I don’t quite know what I would like to paste here, this virtual collage of graduation memory. There is a couple across the Metro North aisle and they are quite gorgeous in a preppy hipster way and they are reading. I would like to take a photograph but the man looks sharp like in terms of dressing and character and his face seems predisposed to scowling. Today reassured me of the fact that my emotions do not hit in the moments they are supposed to. When they threw their crimson caps in the air I did not feel a thing. When I said goodbye to people you could only describe as having made an indelible mark on my being I grinned big and goofy and my heart whispered that I truly meant it. Milan Kundera tells me that what is beautiful to one person can be horror and hollow to the one their lips bleed into when it matters the most. This can only mean that we will never see eye to eye, and a love built on the prospect of assured opposition can only last for so long. This can only mean that I should let myself stop fighting. Pink sky evening is the antithesis to this leaving journey but I am oddly comforted all the same. And see the thing is that when we drop anchor in another world we tend to forget the promises forged all the way drunk on a college couch thousands of miles from home. My eyes glow in the wintertime because Mother Nature has given us a three month long excuse to act like hermits, only surfacing for hot tea and a brief romp around the snowfields. Four-foot tall girl waves goodbye to her city-bound mother, it is hot outside and so she is wearing nautical navy blue shorts that remind me of my brief flirtation with sailing. The sea was too salty so I dressed my wounds and spat out the monster. I am exhausted. I say I dream of Oklahoma but really anywhere away is good. I cannot stay put for more than a couple of years, I would like to earn some money and color the world. Violet, mostly. Yellow and violet and a little bit deep sea green. I would like to do something good, something pretty darn great. I have lost the right to call myself a Christian, I do not pray anymore and Jesus is a pipe dream of my childhood, a memory lost between the folds of the still pristine bible that I took with me to America. I am not okay with fraternizing with certain ethereal beings that I am only on good terms with when in intense pain or crawling about on my scabbed up knees. I am not okay with begging, and I only do beg so how about we say that all human beings are responsible for their own fates and leave it at that. I have picked up drunk cigarette smoking, slightly more illicit smoking, lately I have been drinking like a whale and wearing tight black skirts and you know what I am at peace with it all. My left fingernail is bleeding into my keyboard and I am wondering where all our time went. My mother has called me three times in the past two days. I have yet to call her back.
