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I guess it's about how much you open up.

This is rare, this kind of thought, at 2:20pm instead of am -- at a time when I can look outside and see light instead of sodium yellow lamps, at a place where I can see leaves instead of the dim red light of the Prudential building.

I guess -- I guess it would be nice to live with lurching insensibility again, I guess it would be nice to feel that uncertain jerk again, to be in love in the world without purpose, having colors exploding into profile, every day, all day.

I think it's not my place or my purpose to look ahead and to look up, to hold certain clean images as ideals. I think, instead, I have to grasp what invisible tendrils lie around 'character' and hold them close, lest things fall apart, or the center cannot hold. Imagine fractals or those wet-blue borax crystals growing, or so. I think. I hope.

I went back up to Columbia last night, felt that soft spring zephyr, sat on those steps for the third consecutive time, and watched people watching a campus that was pretty much empty, this time. We jumped up and down banisters and sat still on stairs, and to feel this place as somewhere neutral was like watching the ground in the path of a typhoon, in that doppler radar graph, where you see green advancing and you think, "oh shit." Except in this case it wasn't green but white -- whatever color could be there wasn't there, and -- I was predicting how the corners of that campus would tie into memories -- like the day we stood on the fire escape and saw the lightning over Boston burn into our retinas, or that pagoda on that windy day in that autumn when the trees were sounding like waves, when something more than the living was alive.

And, I guess, it should be nice to lose a sense of awareness, partially, and to have the stupid drunken courage to say it all, to spit it out. Because now comes the time when that starts to grow, that slow spreading disalignment. When I was applying I thought the last four years was a swerve, not a bend. I guess it turns out that I'm wrong.

To have that courage needs more courage, but we'll get there, I think. By now there should be enough in the human circles that create my world that the right mixture of potion will ensue. Perhaps. Maybe it's all me and the reason I hunch my back walking through the city alone around Times Square at 4am is because of what else I have within, perhaps, maybe, I think. But for now, this lethargy, these abstract movements that my body makes through space thinking about love and life and what we left behind; the movement of shadows that tree leaves make; the shape of the curving music in the clear and memory-ridden haze that is Harvard Square; the uncertain position that is me elsewhere, with this appalling and simultaneously understandable repulsion towards people like me -- the way I'm split in thinking about myself, when in fact I shouldn't be 'split' about myself but instead in a wide spectrum with colored breadth listening to the harmonies of my frequencies; everything will be what it is, I think, and in the meantime, the closest replacement to love of everything that will be. And if we make quotes that go "life, ____, this moment of June", so be it; and if things turn out to be even less saturated with color than they are now, then that's a pity, but the only thing left is to try. I think. I'm eighteen years old and just graduated high school. For now, there's more than enough hope.