An Abandoned Building

The building in which I work is currently empty, save a few other RA's and residents who are busy working or sleeping. The lull between the sessions has sent most of the residents home- some for good, not to return until the fall semester begins. That leaves me with a very empty building.

Sure, I have used my time in the building to catch up on sleep and even study for the GRE. I'm almost done with a fantastic book (The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami) and I've had dance parties in my room every night to make up for the fact that the pool is closed and my body needs the movement I usually get at the pool. The pool also makes up a kind of meditation for me. The constant rush of the water, the regulated breathing and the lack of thought as I push and pull myself through the water is relaxing and solitary; plus I get to be in the water, one of my favorite places in the world. And so, since the Rec Center has closed for the week, I have supplemented the dance parties with a thirty minute meditation, just clearing my mind and center my soul.

But, despite all the things I am doing to fill my time, to keep my idle hands from reaching for potato chips or oreos, I find myself retreating inside my own mind. I find myself imagining futures and obsessing over things that may never happen, that probably can never happen. And it's not only the future I find myself ruminating on; its all kinds of things. The beauty of nature, the annoyance of work, the dread I feel when I think of any number of topics that fill me with anxiety- all subject to the extreme introversion I find myself in. And then there are the ultimate thoughts- who am I? Not just my favorite foods, my favorite books, my friends, but on some deeper level. Am I made up of all those other things or is there something more? Is there something outside of those things, my experiences and my collections of thoughts? Am I different in any way?
Probably not.

I blame this particular line of inquiry on The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. Magical surrealism always makes my head spin.
But you should still read it.

A Post from Panicland

Trying to figure out which graduate schools you are going to apply to is something like running into a dark room and taking off at a run in no particular direction; you have little idea where you are going, you are more likely to hurt yourself than not, and it's incredibly frightening. It is something like the panic I felt when trying to plan my life back when I was in high school, except this is for real. I am not a little girl in my room where the walls are plastered with posters of Johnny Depp and Daniel Radcliffe imagining my future life as a musical theatre star, or a marine biologist or an astronaut. This. Is. Real. This is my real, adult life. This is my for real education that has for real student loans attached to it.
Not to mention it is probably going to cost me a small fortune in application fees.

There is no manual for this- no guru to whom you can turn and say, 'Teach me your ways'. There is no Mr. Miyagi of graduate schools teaching you how to wax on and wax off your way into a program that suits your needs and will take you. So, what exactly, is one to do?

My answer is panic. Not a real panic, but a subtle, always present, panic. My panic is that little voice in the back of my head that says I will never find the right fit, that my BA in Religious Studies will be all for naught and that I will end up living on my mom's couch for the rest of myself fending off the cats for food and talking about the grandiose plans I once had for my life.

And so I send out this missive from panicland, not seeking reassurance (for I know that hope is in vain), but rather to practice some freestyle writing skills in preparation for the GRE, which I am taking at the end of the summer.
This living a real, educated person life, is hard.

You can never go back
back to before;
back to normal;
back to home.

You leave yourself in small pieces
with places;
with people;
with cultures.

You are never whole- There is
a memory;
a feeling;
a flashback.
Unexpected- beautiful and tragic.
A reminder of the missing pieces.

You can never go back.
back to before;
back to normal;
back to home.

Home is a changing place
a bus seat in Vietnam;
a ferry in Hong Kong;
a crowded rickshaw in India.

Movement becomes home
the never sleeping pulse of a city;
the meander of a village;
the flow of water.

You can never go back.