A Bag of Thoughts

  My memory of my time on the hill last year starts with the flapping of a great bird above me. I run with my heart in my hands, my jeans pant against me. I'm being chased, I think. Another recollection I have is of stains. The big red stain on my shirt from the tomato basil pasta, the dull brown stain on my pants from kneeling in the dirt, the big blue stains in my moods. Then there was much yearning. Wishing it would rain. And realizing we sit, we sit across each other and we are so alike each other.   Another recent addition has been airports and all the strangers who are momentarily touched by my presence, becoming studied by me because they cross their legs awfully slowly or perhaps, it is their lingering gaze out the window that intrigues me. But also there is the fact that you can’t paint a scene if you’re still in it. I tried writing about day in the night and only found rage. The next day, I was able to see past the crimson blotches and re-discovered a whole patc...

  I turned 17, the age of ripe existential angst - the kind of age where the epitome of storytelling is through subtitles. The age where I overly fixate on how far I can move from my phone without cutting off the music in my airpods - till the edge of the bathroom area, it turns out and after that, I settle for the leaks. On the insignificant day when I turned this age, I revisited my favorite spots on campus and found myself on a journey. Here is what I wrote that day:  stop 1 —  it is windy. it is rainy. it is raining on me. on my freshly washed hair, on my new peach dress, my eager glasses, and my fingers as i type mindlessly, meaninglessly. this dress will forever have remains of my 17th birthday, i suppose. this is mild. the trees stand proudly far from me. i am not embraced, i am a mere observer. the burnished stone paved underneath me is not warm, but it isn’t cold either. i am not a part of this and i am not an outsider.  it has started raining harder, i cann...