The Storm.

You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave? There was nothing philosphical about that moment - just the physical, white hot searing in my gut that taunted with uncertainty. That uncertainty was what killed.

Its always assumed that people destroy people. Everyone tries so hard to war or to stop war because we think we can change each other.

And man, we do. I resent the dreams that I'm living that aren't mine. I hate that artificial injustice makes me want to yell and scream and cry and quit. I hate that a single relationship shut down so much. I miss church. I miss art. But all of this amendable.

What I find so much harder to sew together is myself. There's never a designated time that people set aside and tell you to pull out your loose threads. These scars weren't for nothing - there are all sorts of half-hearted stitches stuck here and there, but you know those incoherent days when you rip every single crusty scab open? You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave?

When people ask me about college, I always say that I'm reluctant to go into a math major when I would throw myself whole-heartedly into architecture or graphic design or even fine arts. I always mention the financial burden, the iron fist my parents have over my funds. But actually, I can't wait. I can't wait... to let it go (forgive me). I can't wait to unleash the storm inside. I can't wait, truly, for those 100% peanut butter dinners, those gorgeous runs, those stupid parties.

And these hopes aren't part of any romantic notion. I know that my days will be filled with books and dread and fatigue, but I also know they'll be filled with 1 am coffee dates, hopeless love, and an unsatiable desire to learn and create and finally, finally be free. Let that Ithaca storm of burden and anger and wrath and hate and winter rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway.