I've spent what feels like a lifetime trying to ease my way into an English world. The world of Chaucer and Eliot and vocabulary only Merriam-Webster knew.
I declared a major. I don’t know if it really matters anymore, because when it’s dark and the campus is empty all I can feel are the forgotten words floating overhead like stars, whispering for me to go home, rectify the official white papers. Become something else; become anything but this.
Become who? Someone who can’t feel anything but the weight of the leaves as they crunch under the lilt of their laugh? Or the one who cries outside their advisor’s office, because they read something so beautiful yet still so small, an unshared treasure?
Why write? Why speak? I don’t know the answers to either. Because when you are writing, you are speaking, and one is almost as good as the other.
But when the words get caught in the back of your throat and your feet are blocks of concrete, unable to move or think or feel — Is writing any better? Will writing save the invisible, or the insignificant or the unheard? The ones who disappear?
I've spent what feels like a lifetime, trying to force my face into the light and take a major that isn’t really mine, dashing off poorly executed poems and flash fiction, grasping for something that might work. But in the end it’s nothing and I am still just as lost.