I have one more year of undergrad to go. It’s sort of unreal…and sort of terrifying. Three years ago I hadn’t even graduated from high school yet! We’d only just had senior prom…I’m pretty sure that, three years ago today, I took my first AP test. I had plans to get my bachelor’s and move to NYC, work for a publishing company, work my way up…live in the city for ten years, tops, and come back South.
It’s so different now.
For starters, I’ve changed my major three times. I’ve fallen in love with poetry. I’m currently discussing the very real plight of the honey bees, in all seriousness, with my mother.
And I’d be quite happy if New York wasn’t ever in the picture again.
You see, now I want to go to grad school. Preferably two grad schools. And I want to write; creatively, angrily, happily. And I have learned that I am not a city person, but would joyfully wander the mountains and countrysides of as many different lovely countries as possible. With preferences given to Ireland and the U.K. for the foreseeable future, as Britain happens to have a person very dear to me.
And very, very soon I will need to be articulating all of this to schools and fellowships and such, presenting it alongside a portfolio of stunning poetry. And I don’t want to write, right now. I have no idea why, but I seem to be stuck. I want to simultaneously hole up and read/roam and live and exist. Perhaps this is my own unique kind of reverse culture shock?