The time I spent living in Seattle might as well be nonexistent. Three and a half years, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t forever. The time I spent in Chicago keeps feeling more compact and less clear. It’s only fitting that the short six months I spent in the intoxicating city of London turned out to be the quickest months to date.
I strangely don’t think about it much. I don’t talk about it much either. I open up my bound journal and flip through some sketches before retiring to a photo album or here to fuel my memories a little more. It doesn’t make me sad. It does quite the opposite. It’s pushing me to take full advantage of the time I’m given. I would spend a thousand more days in London, but what I want to see is everything else. I want to spend time in Turkey, camp through Canada, see America’s national parks and learn German. I want to go on a safari and fish in Belize with my grandfather and finally cross the Equator. I really just have an ache to learn. I hate that I can’t name the bone that I’m using to type this, that my own body’s functions are so foreign to me. I hate that I don’t know how to fix the hand soap pump that fell off last week or how to fix the grounding wire in the light switch that pops every time it’s flipped off. That I use my Canon and only half understand aperture, that I can’t name the typeface on the sign and that constellation has slipped from my memory. I want to know the little things and the big things. I want to know places and people and I want to know that I haven’t missed anything. I’m not supposed to be bound somewhere. This week I have my sights set on Iceland, but we all know that by next month, it’ll be somewhere else. Late night and early morning talks while mending broken lamps (a four hour feat) or fixing baby portions of tortellini with Sydney have been getting weightier lately. They make me question what I thought I had nailed down. There’s so much ahead of us.
I’ve been quite ill lately, but it comes in bouts. I have an abscess that has made its appearance three times. Charades has become my primary means of communication as I lose my ability to speak, eat, drink or be a functioning member of society. It’s become fun to tell people about the time the abscess ruptured in class and the color that came out and the time they stuck a 23-gauge syringe in my throat and the blood that followed. The reactions are great. Meanwhile, I’m only in the most amount of pain I’ve ever experienced. Doctor’s say patients with this abscess are the one’s in the lobby that look like they are actually dying. Nurses say it’s worse than childbirth. I’ll have surgery soon enough to get it all removed because if I have to birth one more golf-ball sized tumor for 48 hours, I better be heavily medicated.
I’m playing soccer again and it’s so good to be back out there. I went to Austin City Limits Music Festival thanks to a sweet kid who decided I needed to go, for whatever silly reason. I’ve been exploring a bit more and making plans for the cool-weathered days, though those seem like they’ll never come. I’m ready to make soups and wear socks with Birk’s unapologetically. This semester is enticing me to do so much more than before. Maybe because the end is in sight or because I have had the chance to miss what’s here. I know how good it is.