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solitude

14 Aug

When I was younger, I thought, Yeah, man. Solitude. Give me my space. Leave me alone. Let me be by myself in my cold bedroom so I can write all of my grey thoughts in this journal that people will read when I’m dead at seventeen, when they’re older and can see all the little things they could have done to keep me happier and maybe fight a little harder to climb back up when I find myself dangling from the edge of the Pali lookout after a freak gust of wind. Yeah. Solitude.
A few years passed until solitude was A Bench In The English Building. I sat cross-legged atop the bench near the drinking fountain on the third floor of Kuykendall Hall to get a headstart on my homework or jot my thoughts on a piece of notebook paper about the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy who was sitting on the bench across from mine, staring like I had something on my face, like my hair was ridiculous, like he was really bored and found it amusing to mess with someone who was alone and vulnerable and severely affected by extended eye-contact. After that, solitude was Leaving School At Nightfall. Content On The City Bus. Solitude was the window seat before the door on the right side of the bus, the most comfortable pair of leather sandals I’d ever owned and appreciated even when it started feeling slippery and maybe moldy after all the puddles I’d accidentally stepped in those three years I’d known them, naturally-torn and faded blue jeans, and an old Mickey Mouse sweater thrown over just a bra, because I liked when I didn’t care and when I wore ugly clothes that made me comfortable and helped me to appreciate freshman and sophomore year of college, TheBus, Naive Orleans by Anberlin, and solitude.

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