After having a brief conversation with someone I went to school with, he mentioned that he missed college, or at least the city.
I thought about it and realized .. I don't miss it. That's not to say I don't miss spending more time with the people I'd come to love, or that I don't miss random little things about the campus (like the fountain by Hunt-Cavanaugh or the way the leaves were always treacherously slippery up the Guzman Hill and by Sullivan Hall when I cut through the path between the trees because I was always late for work). But .. I'm okay. I see that part of my life as having lived out its short, four-year life. I gained the experiences I needed, I made life-long friends, I grew, I found myself, I figured some parts of my life out, I struggled and stared Death straight in the face and then told him to go fuck himself, I made it through and walked across that stage.
I was ready to go. I was ready for the next chapter of my life. I've somehow gotten to a place of complete .. peace. I'm no longer living in the past. I'm not looking at pictures from college longingly, wishing I could have more moments. Because somehow, having more would diminish the ones I already have. I know that I'll see my friends as often as our schedules allow. We won't lose touch that easily. It'll require more effort than just shouting down the hall, but it'll be worth it.
I've finally figured out how to live in the moment. I have no idea how, but God damn.
It feels amazing.
- May (you choose to live).
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About Me
- May
- She is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with a hint of MoMA and the Whitney. She is Walt Whitman's "Myself" in "Song of Myself." She is an incomplete stanza of a finished poem. She is the subtitle at the bottom of the screen of a foreign film, spelled wrong. She is the low E string of a guitar. She is the G chord on a piano. She is the Tube, the NY Subway System, the T, the Metro, and everything in between. She is one of the grains of sand on a beach, anywhere in the world. She is the needle, injecting ink into someone's skin. She is the bubble racing from the bottom of a pint of Guinness. She is the Flat Iron building. She is the imaginary film in your digital camera. She is the musty smell of an old book you found in the back of a dusty bookstore. She is not one but two twins of the Gemini sign. She is the middle line at the bottom of the peace sign. She is the "you" when Paul McCartney sings "All you need is love." She is her. No one else.
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