I’ve started recording audio versions of my blog posts. Just press play and follow along!
I write to you a letter on new endeavors. I’ve never been at such a juncture before, though, so this plunge into the void feels more like a forced push rather than a gentle change of lanes. And at the end of all things, nostalgia’s grip is tightest. Alone in this empty house I tap away at the keys, letting it all come back to me.
A year ago exactly, I found a new corner of the cosmos to call my home. A fresh-faced senior anxious to revive the routine of school, work and play was embodied in my every move. I couldn’t wait for another year here in Boulder. The new house welcomed new roommates and a breath of fresh air. Everything was hopeful.
I remember taking tequila shots in the house with two of them the Saturday night before classes began. Energy was high and life was back in place. I welcomed myself back to campus and felt at home, like I was meant to be exactly where I was. I have always identified with an affinity to learn, so school has ever been the feeding ground for my hungry mind. Once the swing of things was in full motion, I can say I was content.
If you’ve followed my writings since last August, you can guess what happens next.
Things took an unsettling turn as I fell into heartbreak. After an action-packed October, the winter grew inside me and depression overcame. The semester ended and I found myself alone in the house with nothing but time to think. And if you’ve been bummed before, you’ll know that thinking is rarely sorrow’s antidote.
But the house was calm and, for the most part, kept the feelings away. It was safe, and I felt secure within its walls.
New year’s eve at the house was patiently quiet as well. As the clock struck midnight, my thoughts were engulfed by literature, my body sober and worn, my heart teased by the potential of having someone near. I committed to the cliché that brings a new calendar: of letting old acquaintance be forgotten, of restarting, as if I were a programmed machine. The veil I used to hide behind kept me blind until she drove by the house. Then, like mustard gas, a blanket fell upon the walls and everything became asthmatic.
I kept holding on to arbitrary dates, expecting the house to return to the way it was, the way it felt, when I entered it. I kept coming home later and later, afraid of being haunted by its glances. Distance became impossible: either I was on campus or at the house, and both corners were very cold. By March I had made no progress. April was relentless. And May meant the end of college. But I still wasn’t okay. I felt like I no longer belonged.
When the house turned on me, the city did too.
As the spontaneity of summer closed in, I got better. I got a lot better. Everything was warmed by the power of meaningful work and lovable friends. Flings and crushes refilled my desire to love and be loved. Tan-lines and drunken nights brought happy tears and side-aches. My soul became yellow. Yet, in returning to the house for sleep, I still felt the presence of its dead memories. But I ignored them for a while.
June was perfect in every way.
July was half fun, half stress, as the quickly approaching deadline of August put my gears into motion. I was forced to spend the evenings in the house in search for work, in search for a new quadrant to call home. Separation from school helped heal my heart. But the seasons turn in cycles and tonight, I’m back at square one. There is one thing, however, that acts as a relic of hope:
This is the last night in the house.
Tomorrow I leave everything in desperate search for the distance I’ve needed since the house became a leech. I’ve been forced from this city by love letdown, by vicious triggers that won’t go away. The past twelve months have taken me through sludge and squalor. Tomorrow, I push a fist into the face of remembrance and separate far, far away.
What I’m really trying to say, reader, is that I’ve never been happy to leave something that I loved.
They say to quit when interest is high, to go out on top. In viewing everything through the lens of retrospect, I wish that last August never happened to me. I wish that September through May would go away, that I left this place before it had a chance to betray me. I wish the house was never mine. And I will wish these things until I’m happy they happened. For now, I’m feeling far from that acceptance.
Until then, I must sing the song of my life. Then I must let go.
Cardboard boxes surround me and reflect off the light of a little laptop. Seven days from now I’ll be moving into a two bedroom apartment with my best friend in Denver. I can say that I had a heck of a run in Boulder, but I need some space before I can think of this place as a happy one. I tell people that it has run its course. I don’t tell them what I just wrote you: that I regret the last year of my life here. But I commit every piece of writing to transparency, so now you know. The best two months of my life are coming to a close, and sometimes I feel that the good times are always ending before they can begin. I’ve really had a kick-ass summer, though, so I promise that I’m not upset.
I just need some space.
Life can’t pause. I’m scrambling like a rabid ant right now. In a month, I’ll tell another story of transition, of new beginnings in a new city, of a new era of my life. The years of college are over. My first step into adulthood has officially begun. I guess that this is what everyone’s been talking about since I was swinging at piñatas and eating birthday cake. I guess this is what they refer to as ‘growing up’. I guess there’s so much more to all of this than I can see right now.
I guess I never thought it would come.
But I guess I’m ready.
And all I can do right now is keep on loving.