It’s all necessary. I sit in my room, legs up on my short dresser that doubles as a coffee table for my typewriter and discarded clothes and find myself lost in the bare wall in front of me. Barely four months I’ve lived here- an apartment far beyond any standards or glimpse of ‘luxury’ I held before. Boxes are lined against the door, innocent to the travels we’re about to take but ready. More ready than I am. They’re necessary, more than I thought before.
I moved here a year ago and I have never felt so different in a year. Never so far with accomplishments and failures, equally. Heartbreak I would have never wished to read about. I can’t blush or cry or feel anything but pride. Though I’m aware of the pain I know is ahead. By Friday. When all the books and short summer shorts and flea market bags and club wigs are packed and the room is emptied. When I look at this ‘luxury bedroom’ bare for whoever next, just as I looked at that weird Spanish-style studio apartment with no working A/C last summer.
It’s weird to feel so different than the person I just was a year ago yet feel the exact same angst. But here it is, looking at the highway as an empty canvas, as open doors and with a new name if I want. Something like “Anne” or “Elle.”
Little Girl, Big City part 2.
a poorly written essay on operant conditioning 
Leave a comment