What kept me alive, literally and metaphorically, was the hope that people were generous enough to grant me, those little exchanges of wishes and promises.
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And altogether, these old and new things form some kind of new-old thing, a timeless thing. A memory, if you will.
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I've been scrapping together a presentable image because if I were to try to explain the depth of everything that truly mattered to me, it would be a mish-mosh of intangibility and immeasurability.
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At any rate, this is a super roundabout way to say that I still want to find meaning in dreaming and planning for the year ahead, even in so much uncertainty. That I still encountered warmth in the wind.
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I recently stumbled upon two journals that I kept from middle to early high school. Maybe my mental space was all dedicated to memorizing AP US History facts, or maybe I just did not want to remember those times.
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In other words, “Next Week” is the twisted reality that I, and maybe some of you, spend so much of the present in consternation about, and trying to push off the present to plan the future. Always trying to pull the puppet strings of what comes next.
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This is it, folks. Tomorrow marks the first day of classes for Harvard’s fall semester, and I’m not attending.
I hope this is a detour worth taking! See you on the other side :)
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