One of life’s quiet excitements is to stand somewhat apart from yourself and watch yourself softly becoming the author of something beautiful even if it is only a floating ash.
Chloé A/W 2012/2013
Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.
Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
What good amid these, O me, O life?
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
“There’s no dystopia here, nor even a whiff of the supernatural, unless you count Joe’s otherworldly batting average.”
On the first day of my internship, we wrote ourselves letters. Here’s mine.
They want you to write a letter to yourself, but you are too overwhelmed, nervous, and excited to have any profound or even semi-coherent thoughts about the 11-week road ahead. One scattered thought, though: I want this summer to feel shorter and denser than the last. I want to be engaged, not anxious, not future-focused. I want to feel like every day is a compacter, pushing down the lessons of the last to—impossibly—make room for the new.
Right now, having just moved into my dorm at GW, having sought out new acquaintances for stilted meals, this whole thing feels rather like summer camp: It is humid, and the air is dense like overripe peaches, and expectation clings sticky to our chins. Right now, I want to write, but I think I might be happy and useful just about anywhere. It doesn’t matter where you start; hard work, humility, and zeal are the great equalizers, right?