memories

I think about that first day. Often. Memories I call on when I feel like seeing you, when I’m willing to risk the comfort of my mind for the chance to sit in during one of our nights together again.

this is the fire that poets speak about / that romantics write about, singers sing about, artists paint about, bohemians explore / the fire, the burn that I feel for you.

There’s so much good and bad to unpack, but I won’t bore you with the particulars. Even though I felt like I was being thrown back and forth a lot, I managed to make it through all right – and I’ve learned some valuable lessons along the way.

These serendipitous moments bring me home, reminding me of memories attached to these people whose smells seem to appear out of thin air.

I first started keeping a diary at the age of 9. Going through old entries, I realized that while I can never fully remember everything I ever experience, my diary will.

You stopped playing / Go back / Give me the nocturne in the dusky air. / Come closer / The earth wants immensely to know you / Begged me to introduce / You.

The future is written in that bowl, sugar-cream topographies of the soul. 

We are so used to this pressured desire to be happy that we don’t realize how we often view our negative emotions as invalid, shameful or wrong. 

As I prepare for my senior year at UC Berkeley, I find myself in a state of self-reflection. I look back at my past years, all the things I’ve experienced and think about how they’ve all led me to where I am now. As I approach my last year of undergrad, I’m filled with excitement, angst, nerves, gratitude and every emotion I could imagine.

Contained in that cup were East Coast strip malls, cowboy hats in 100-degree heat and homemade face masks made from linen freckled with various dogs. Inside that cup was chicken soup for the lost soul.