Fresh Air From The Age

“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”

Then Caribou sang.

And everything just seemed to melt away. It was then that I thought, “what was I carrying anyway?” I had no idea what was slowing me down. In these days fulla dead hours there’s nothing to do but try to burn it, but quick.

A life-long soundtrack to a movie not yet written? iTunes and Limewire rejoice.

Family is swerving and throttling harder and harder. Granny from dad’s side over– a month.

Suddenly, with a little help from something unnamed in Sunday nights, I find myself speeding along Alligator Alley. The night eats up the windows and the instrument panel seems warmer because of its gentle lights. “She’s The One” by Caribou helps the car cut through the night along with the overwhelmed headlights trailing behind it. Shotgun rides her, whoever she is. In there, deep in the recollections of when we read Heart of Darkness in high school, hides a not-so-platonic intimacy– no, not explicit at all. Hours pass, here and there, without our notice. The chatter becomes hushed and ripe with emotion and lack of confidence. Suddenly, we notice we’re whispering but neither does a thing about it. Then, I can’t help but stop. To want it too much would ruin it, yeah?

This forced vacation, (although not, but one could hardly call school a chore), has been a blessing. The days hold nothing but time to read and freak out and calm down again. I feel it’s just what the doctor ordered but I can’t ignore the gentle gnawing at the nape of my neck– a road trip is in order. I figure septemberish would be a good time to escape to New College for a weekend. I feel those trips have been vital to whatever is happening. Granted, I usually do have an obscenely good time, but hey, it’s me time?

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