Breaking The Fourth Wall: Forever in Fiction Lag

We haven’t done this in a while.

The internet has a very specific power. Could this be what Kanye was talking about in “Addiction”? It kind of plays with my mind and begs me to come again. It allows me to daydream whenever I want. It doesn’t allow me to study. It lets me Craigslist apartments in Harlem, look at grad school websites, record my voice for 300+ to hear (thank you, by the way, for even placing what I have to say or sing on a high enough pedestal for you to pay attention. Thank you, sincerely.) and pretend I could make music a thing that I do . 

I’ve said this before, but a part of getting older feels like realizing that nothing can ruin your life. Only death. Which is inevitable. Yes, that is dramatic. It’s also the truth. The final that I have on Friday will not matter in a year. What if I do poorly? I won’t. It will be okay. What matters now is that the light in my room is perfect. This lamp I bought the first week I moved to England is glowing, with stickers from when my flatmate put them on my face in the kitchen and I haphazardly slapped them on the green silk shade. No other light is on. I’m sitting on my bed with my legs crossed as if it were a couch. When I first came to this room I actually said out loud, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ I was exhausted and my room looked like what you’d see in a hospital. It’s also tiny. It’s become mine, though. Do I want to do well on Friday? Yes, of course, but I can’t shake this feeling of wanting to soak in this little nest I’ve created for as long as I possibly can. As reality keeps reminding me, that’s less than three weeks. 

When I was back in the States, I would take moments to think about where each item I was wearing that day was from. Somehow each city coming together to form my ensemble on my body felt like a puzzle piece that made me, even just for that day. The things I’ve collected throughout my time in Europe feel just like that. Yet, instead of the cities mattering, it’s the stories behind them. The postcards I bought in the Paris rain as I whispered in French to the lady who worked the stand. The charity shop in Bristol where I bought the dish that holds my change and rings. Rings. Those have become my identity. I wear my pride and memories on my fingers

As I type this I’ve been touching my duvet. It’s blue and I hated it when I moved in last October. It was harsh and hospital blue. It’s gotten very soft with many washings. Above my head is the map I used in Paris. It’s still wrinkly from me folding it into tiny squares. I didn’t want to look like a tourist. I wanted to blend in like red wine on a Saturday afternoon. I could go on forever, but I just want keep sitting here and staring in this glowy light. It’s really beautiful to find a home.