I feel guilty
because I know I’m moving forward,
and it’s not that I’m leaving people behind me,
it’s that we’re taking different paths.
And maybe I didn’t always respond well
to these forks in the road.
I know I’ve forced some people off of my path,
and reached my arm out to others to pull them aboard.
I’ve yelled down some paths, screamed,
my voice trailing behind the person walking away,
echoing off tree trunks we once carved our memories into,
but knowing I am no longer to travel beside them.
And that’s the guilt.
Knowing that despite miles and miles on the same path,
tripping over rocks and potholes together,
you find yourself divided at the fork.
And the miles together end.
A while ago, I thought I would write a piece about what love means to different people. I’m always curiously butting into people’s personal lives, (even if they don’t know it. I’m a master of not only Facebook stalking, but Facebook deep-digging in a way that would put Sherlock Holmes to shame), and interviewing people seemed the least abrasive way to learn more. I interviewed my college friends, my high school friends, my family, even an ex. And the responses I got to the question I gave, “How do you define love?” were varied and beautiful, but they weren’t what…
From your bedroom, from your living room couch, from a slow day at the desk in your office, from a nightstand in a hotel room wherever you travel, I want you to write me letters.
Handwrite them so I can visualize your wrist curving with each letter the pen traces. So I may see your thumb print smeared accidentally in the ink, blurring several words, still vaguely legible.
Or type them so you can quickly recount your experiences before moving onto your next adventure. Let the feel of your fingers tapping the keyboard become therapeutic. …
Because nothing is a waste. Not even the lowly hell of Tinder dates.
I don’t mind wasting my time with people. Okay, hear me out. Because right now that first sentence sounds like either I’m being sarcastic or I’m slutty. Sarcasm is frequent but not in this instance, and the nickname “slut” is more of an affectionate and ironic pet name my friends use with me, for example, (name changed):
And to some, maybe missing a night of shotgunning beers to instead watch the end of Big Fish while I fall asleep on my couch is a waste of time…
Repeat after me, “Don’t settle, don’t settle, don’t settle for second-best.”
And now you have a new mantra for your yoga class.
Second-best is not something I try to aim for. My mom never sat me down as a little kid and told me, “You can be sub-par to anything you want! You can be vice president of the United States of America one day, or a mistress to the president of the United States of America!”
I understand that circumstances are different for every situation, I’m not saying that second place in a marathon of 30,000 runners is anything…
I am a junior in college who calls Rutgers University my home. There’s a reason why I say “Rutgers” and not “New Brunswick” or “New Jersey” or “Third Rock From the Sun,” but slow your roll, I’m getting to that soon.
Also as a junior in college, I am still writing in the notebooks that I first began taking notes in during my freshman year of college. …
I tend to think about life the most while I’m in the shower. A more predictable place for pondering might be lying in bed right before falling asleep or zoning out during a lecture or meeting, but for me the big questions and realizations usually happen while I’m washing my hair, (Which I promise I do frequently no matter how crazy and untamed my curls may look.)
I can count on one hand the few people who have seen me really cry. I mean sobbing, heaving crying. We’ve all been there at one time or another. That cry reserved for deaths in the family, having your heart broken, getting into your first car accident with your friend’s neighbor’s mailbox, or accidentally letting go of a balloon if you’re under the age of five.
And yet, to even those who have been there to hand me tissues (or their entire shirt, you know who are you, thank you) to wipe the mascara running down my face, I tend…
When boys and I talk, it’s comparable to when a lactose intolerant person eats dairy. Sometimes it’s by accident. Sometimes it’s on purpose because I want to give it a try and see if it’s still painful. But either way I pretty much know it’s going to end a little messy and with some stomach cramps.
If I took a little time for some self-analysis, (or as I refer to it: “the cheapest form of therapy that I prescribe to maybe a little too often”), I’m incredibly judgmental. But not in the way I think you would think. When my…
Professional Beatles fan and diary-entry writer on the side.