A good run [away].
Ten months. Ten months living six thousand miles from home. Ten months is not necessarily an accomplishment. Still, ten months is long enough to contemplate the complete loss of a home. Home, after all, can quickly become a shell: easily carried about, easily left behind…
The well-worn path between your residence and work place never ceases to amaze. Rice patties are year round entertainment, changing ever-so slowly with the seasons, dead set on matching your mood. The road is narrow. At present, tiny plants rise on both sides from the depths of shallow water. Everything is relative.
Only two months remain. Your intentions for this year, your year away, have seen periods of invigorated attention and periods of trudging devotion. You’ve got a hundred pages of correspondence, three markedly-unfinished novels, and a hefty collection of piss-poor poetry. Looking on the bright-side, you’re a better cook than ever before, and you’ve forced your way through some cumbersome literary cornerstones (new, tasty uses for tofu and To the Lighthouse respectively stand out in specific).
My conclusion is that you need another year without a home. You’ve got a room of your own; oughtn’t that be enough? Write words that bring unity to chaos; finish the painting, even if only to reuse the canvas for another catastrophe. Keep working on tre flips too.
Best of luck; fingers crossed on avoiding the employment axe.
The sentimental, sensitive twenty-something teen,