Having a ton of travel pictures ironically makes me so hesitant to write about them now.
I can’t tell if this reluctance stems from my inability to sit down and get things done (this should be a real diagnosis. It’s turning into an epidemic), or this strange melancholy I feel when I look through them.
Your photos are so nice! they say when they see the photo wall in my room.
Thanks I reply, there’s a story behind every single one.
Yet somehow, thinking about those stories now make me stop rather than smile.
That was when I was 18, and we’d never seen snow before. // We were suffering in Madrid, and the boat ride was the only highlight. // That was when I had my first ever caricature done and I highly suspect the artist was high. // That was at my friend’s 21st, and we all snuck past reception because breaking rules is what we do. // Ah, we were emceeing together two years ago and we were so afraid of a cold crowd that we downed one too many blue spins and giggled the night away on stage. It was the best night ever.
I don’t know if this peculiar sadness comes from knowing that I’ll be graduating soon. It feels so weird thinking about it – really, me? A responsible, working adult with responsible, working adult worries? Is that even possible??? I’m having trouble starting research for dissertation as it is, and soon I’ll have to think about bills and job things and housing?? It’s too soon.
Give me back my childhood and carefree abandon, dammit.
I can’t adult yet. Please don’t make me adult.