13.
Today I'm nervous because tomorrow is so undeclared. Tomorrow is plane flights away from everything I'm hiding from. It's 3000 miles distance from mother and father, from sister times two. From yellow and orange sheets that line my bed, and green carpet covered with suitcase and clothing; someplace that's neutral in my memory now, not so much owned, but owning. From pictures on the wall that cover years of friendship, and girls that return home just in time to catch my airplane lifting off the black asphalt, distant tail lights that surface the clouds. It's distance from school work and presents, from commercialized holidays that lack a brightened tree, and ornaments they'll decorate, without my help. It's forever away from reality and resistance, from Boston streets and chinatown boulevards, from the Fung Wah bus and Upstate New York evergreens. College dramatics and feelings newly repressed.
Tomorrow is windier and warmer at once; is Santa Cruz and San Francisco and everything between LA. It's nothing set or permanent, and simply imagination. It's one phone call away from future happiness, and independence. And I feel little towards it, except that it's moving ahead.
The only thing I have is a ticket in hand, and a duffell bag packed far too heavy. A companion who feels just as equally lost, and amused by our idealism. The pill of California.
Tomorrow is windier and warmer at once; is Santa Cruz and San Francisco and everything between LA. It's nothing set or permanent, and simply imagination. It's one phone call away from future happiness, and independence. And I feel little towards it, except that it's moving ahead.
The only thing I have is a ticket in hand, and a duffell bag packed far too heavy. A companion who feels just as equally lost, and amused by our idealism. The pill of California.