conversational pieces

The month of July

 "You turn living into language, transcribing beats and breaths and the occasional loss of both: but these books are ephemeral, filled with ineffable joys and superfluous sadness," said she to the poet. 

Note the way you note the days, flyaway hair and trembling hands, reading tarot cards and horoscopes in the early hours of morning - un-anchored spirits are all that is left. So beckon all tender and tremulous thought, and flee from lackadaisical worlds (borne in the cold, thy apathetic infection). 

Drown out these fears (they know my hands too well) in a cacophony of questions and the pursuit for answers; warmed with the knowledge of a lingering existence beyond an unforgiving season.

--

Words leaving me with every breath: I am stuck, overwhelmed by the notion of senior year (it is the thought of it that seems to overwhelm me more than the workload), and oh - am I being melodramatic? (The answer is a resounding yes, I simply need constant reminders to maintain perspective).

A few lines to sum up the term break just passed: Anna Karenina, Kafka and Sartre, visits to the local gallery and museum (felt similar sentiments to Holden Caufield in regards to their constant nature), dressed up with dear friends to see the midnight screening of Harry Potter (tears, everyone calm down and take deep breaths now), library hours, long walks/long talks, cold hands and chipped mugs, french music, the need to develop my disposable, tiny road trips and birthday celebrations.

Nearly seventeen is a strange age to be; as though on the cusp of independence but still retaining some childish illusions and naivety. I feel as though I used to be surer of myself, and now I am an almost esoteric identity (and I mean this in the way all adolescents do - the sudden, and unwarranted, desire to define oneself is something I am trying to discard). 

I hope you've been well - love,

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