Hey, livejournal. It's 2007 now.
I'm in college now and things are different, moreso than ever before. Sometimes I'm a little in awe of everything around me, how I've come to be here when my goals were always dreams I fell asleep to at night. But now here I am, living a life I'd always only written about.
I wish I could tell you something different for a change, something other than ambiguous trivialities concerning the content of my days. I wish I could tell you that I've met someone with burnt brown eyes and caramel skin who breathes in the scent of my hair at night. I wish I could tell you that someone and I walk to class together with his hand clutching mine, as if any separation between our fingers would make the walk longer and the distance farther. I wish I could tell you that we spend our afternoons atop the many hills of Berkeley, soaking up the dying sunlight as we talk about where we've been and where we're going and how the future is a story we're going to write using the details of each other. But I can't, because I still haven't met someone.
I get the feeling that these words will transform themselves as soon as someone enters my life, and I'm anxious to see the difference. People say that love brings out the best and worst in a person, and I've already seen my worst; I'm anxious to see my best.
But anyways, enough about someone and I. Berkeley is filled with interesting people with back stories that could be made into movies, and I find myself ceaselessly engaged with everyone I meet. Or, at least, most of the people I meet. I'm glad that I moved out and I'm glad that I've distanced myself from people who used to keep me down, because from here all I expect to go is up.
I wish I could tell you something different for a change, something other than ambiguous trivialities concerning the content of my days. I wish I could tell you that I've met someone with burnt brown eyes and caramel skin who breathes in the scent of my hair at night. I wish I could tell you that someone and I walk to class together with his hand clutching mine, as if any separation between our fingers would make the walk longer and the distance farther. I wish I could tell you that we spend our afternoons atop the many hills of Berkeley, soaking up the dying sunlight as we talk about where we've been and where we're going and how the future is a story we're going to write using the details of each other. But I can't, because I still haven't met someone.
I get the feeling that these words will transform themselves as soon as someone enters my life, and I'm anxious to see the difference. People say that love brings out the best and worst in a person, and I've already seen my worst; I'm anxious to see my best.
But anyways, enough about someone and I. Berkeley is filled with interesting people with back stories that could be made into movies, and I find myself ceaselessly engaged with everyone I meet. Or, at least, most of the people I meet. I'm glad that I moved out and I'm glad that I've distanced myself from people who used to keep me down, because from here all I expect to go is up.