You spend four crucial years with your head in books and (in some cases) getting your head spun around in many directions by faith stuff.
No one ever tells you that the year right after is the most scary and fucked up year ever. No one tells you there are no easy paths forward.
There is no one who is willing to tell you that working part time is a constant tightrope walk above oblivion.
No one tells you that your art won’t become the fulfillment you need it to be just because you need it to be. No one can save you from you.
No one can push you into the places you need to be. No one can magically provide the insulating reassurance that everything will be well.
No one can open your heart in the ways and in the times when it needs to be opened. No one knows what is best for you anymore.
You’re honestly just as ridiculous as you always feared. You’ll probably be OK someday, maybe feel OK here and there, but never know it.
OK is a signifier without an anchor. OK is weightless and you’re a rock. OK is the moon and you’ve sprung an oxygen leak.
You kneel and rise like you always did before. You genuflect. You start to wonder why this doesn’t feel the heaven that it did.
You make grand plans of escape. You drink on foreign soil. You’re more at home with the road moving beneath you than in your queen size bed.
You never thought about the implications of your self until it all began to close in.
You earn a magna cum laude in books but forget you have a body. Your eyes forget how to cry because you have to be On Point all the time.
You will always be an alien in your own home. You worry you will never have a roof of your own, a table, walls to scrawl your truth upon.
You have better conversations with yourself than with the friends who literally brought you to life, who were your sun and stars.
You don’t know if they’ll ever understand or accept the continents within your broken head. You want everywhere but in your queen size bed.
You watch the social numbers to track the wordless goodbyes of those you’ll never greet again. You want to apologize, but can’t forgive.
No one ever tells you Indiana just gets smaller, just gets harder to leave. You knew this. You never believed you’d need to know so hard.
You read all the books about love, and sing all the songs and you feel all the feels. And then you don’t. And then you can’t.
This isn’t a fucking storybook. This is going to be hard work. There are no musical montages in the bildungsroman of your stupid life.
This is the shit that keeps you up at night. And tonight, you said it out loud. It feels no less real, but maybe just a bit lighter.
And maybe the lightness is a lie. But sometimes a beautiful lie is all you have, Dorothy. Sometimes it’s what you need.
Don’t build it all into a beautiful tomb. Expend yourself upon yourself while you are young. Learn the yearning. Laugh. Cry.