(no subject)
For a city so big, New York is the loneliest place I know. I am taking this writing class, and everything I write is about home. I say, Tuscaloosa is my home of all homes. I write about my lake, the sticky summers, learning to dive. Critiques tell me that I am linking subject matter and not concepts. Everything I write is about home, but how do the homes connect? I wish I could connect the dots for them, form a constellation for the Druid City.
My days are like this: the fourteen block walk to class, lose my ID too many times, awkward elevator silences, drink orange tea and listen to sad music, write papers I am not proud of. I come home after working and class and change immediately into my mother's old sweater, C.'s boxers. I ran out of groceries three days ago, but have not been able to bring myself to walk half a block to Trader Joe's, or a block to Whole Foods. My sheets need to be washed, so I have been sleeping on a bare mattress. It fits, somehow.
My days are like this: the fourteen block walk to class, lose my ID too many times, awkward elevator silences, drink orange tea and listen to sad music, write papers I am not proud of. I come home after working and class and change immediately into my mother's old sweater, C.'s boxers. I ran out of groceries three days ago, but have not been able to bring myself to walk half a block to Trader Joe's, or a block to Whole Foods. My sheets need to be washed, so I have been sleeping on a bare mattress. It fits, somehow.