There are two weeks left before you are done with the semester. Everything is coming down to due dates and deadlines but somehow only Spider Solitaire is commanding enough to inspire any sort of willingness in execution. It is a struggle to write paper after paper, to try and complete one take home exam after another, to reread chapters from months ago. You are more than ready to throw in the alleged towel, but know you will not able to get through intergalactic travel or existence without it (or that stupid degree you are working for).
But all Douglas Adams references aside, you are finding yourself, though unmotivated, coming to a pleasant understanding and acceptance of how you have started to really live your life. You are contemplative with enough sense to not become overwhelmed by past and present mistakes.
It is raining, which you love. But such downpour is not without reminders of things you’ve left behind and things you are without.
You come home with thoughts and preponderance of Hume, whom you’ve been studying in one of your philosophy classes. He is an old love, from courses taken and books read long ago. Causation and nostalgia compel you to recollection— and thoughts of shattered glass lead to thoughts of wrecking balls. Your phone rings and why, speak of the devil.. But you are no longer taking phone calls from angry ex-boyfriends so you do not pick up.
Instead you call over dear friends for an execution of good times before the next two weeks of hell. There are papers to be written, but tonight you chose to embrace the glory of your apartment and the people you’ve come to love and stay in without obligation to work.
There has been a semester’s worth of parties, and there is no need for another tonight. Rather, the ones who are compelled just as much by conversation than keg stands come over and things seem to matter more.
The living room is suddenly full. You smoke a joint and listen to Simon and Garfunkel covering Bob Dylan on vinyl. You smoke your cigarettes and make your love. You drink your wine and you are happy.
You talk about your generation of codependents, how we are all compelled to be in relationships for fear of being alone, but base them on no real grounds of legitimacy, and therefore find ourselves dissatisfied. We move to cheating, instead of merely breaking up with those who do not fulfill us because, again, we’re so damn terrified of spending the night alone. Your friends are the contributing kind. You converse and take it all in. You are learning more and more of what there is to be taken from choosing carefully the ones you invite in. Platonically and otherwise.
They are understanding of the romantic disasters of the semester that you’ve endured. These are the people who are forgiving when you get caught up and do not call for weeks at a time because you are busy indulging in maljudgement with boys they warned you about. These are the ones who will always return to the apartment, to your home and to your heart, even when you are not always returning calls.
You realize you want this for your apartment always. Three years feels like a waste when you end a relationship. And coming into your own apartment right after that feels a lot like tabula fucking rasa. But it soon becomes a playground for bad ideas and trying to get over things way too fast. Single for the first time in years with your own apartment, as you learned this semester, inspires many trials and many errors. But you remind yourself that it is not who’s sleeping in your bed that really matters, but who’s sitting in your living room, listening to record players and making you feel.
But all Douglas Adams references aside, you are finding yourself, though unmotivated, coming to a pleasant understanding and acceptance of how you have started to really live your life. You are contemplative with enough sense to not become overwhelmed by past and present mistakes.
It is raining, which you love. But such downpour is not without reminders of things you’ve left behind and things you are without.
You come home with thoughts and preponderance of Hume, whom you’ve been studying in one of your philosophy classes. He is an old love, from courses taken and books read long ago. Causation and nostalgia compel you to recollection— and thoughts of shattered glass lead to thoughts of wrecking balls. Your phone rings and why, speak of the devil.. But you are no longer taking phone calls from angry ex-boyfriends so you do not pick up.
Instead you call over dear friends for an execution of good times before the next two weeks of hell. There are papers to be written, but tonight you chose to embrace the glory of your apartment and the people you’ve come to love and stay in without obligation to work.
There has been a semester’s worth of parties, and there is no need for another tonight. Rather, the ones who are compelled just as much by conversation than keg stands come over and things seem to matter more.
The living room is suddenly full. You smoke a joint and listen to Simon and Garfunkel covering Bob Dylan on vinyl. You smoke your cigarettes and make your love. You drink your wine and you are happy.
You talk about your generation of codependents, how we are all compelled to be in relationships for fear of being alone, but base them on no real grounds of legitimacy, and therefore find ourselves dissatisfied. We move to cheating, instead of merely breaking up with those who do not fulfill us because, again, we’re so damn terrified of spending the night alone. Your friends are the contributing kind. You converse and take it all in. You are learning more and more of what there is to be taken from choosing carefully the ones you invite in. Platonically and otherwise.
They are understanding of the romantic disasters of the semester that you’ve endured. These are the people who are forgiving when you get caught up and do not call for weeks at a time because you are busy indulging in maljudgement with boys they warned you about. These are the ones who will always return to the apartment, to your home and to your heart, even when you are not always returning calls.
You realize you want this for your apartment always. Three years feels like a waste when you end a relationship. And coming into your own apartment right after that feels a lot like tabula fucking rasa. But it soon becomes a playground for bad ideas and trying to get over things way too fast. Single for the first time in years with your own apartment, as you learned this semester, inspires many trials and many errors. But you remind yourself that it is not who’s sleeping in your bed that really matters, but who’s sitting in your living room, listening to record players and making you feel.
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