When I was six I thought that nobody loved me. When I was thirteen I was an angsty cliché and sort of proud of it. Now I’m nineteen. My Hogwarts letter hasn’t come and I never got my Sound of Music moment in a pavilion. I should probably get over that.
I forgot to set a timer.
Sometimes in the morning I stare at my ceiling at wonder why they did that stupid design where it’s all rough. It’s called popcorn I think and it makes me think of staccato notes on a violin. I never liked those notes but I loved the way my bow bounced off the strings when I made them. I wonder why they didn’t just do the standard clapboard ceiling where you can push the tiles up and there’s space above. Probably because they didn’t want dumb college kids climbing in the ceiling. I can respect that.
I haven’t told many people but when they sent us that survey to fill out before freshman year so they know what sort of student drops out, I said that my desired career was homemaker. But I only told a few people because I know that’s not what I’m supposed to want.
Would you like to know a secret?
Sometimes I’m not sure what I want. Sometimes I want a dozen kids who live in a home so filled with love that it practically bursts. I can’t solve world hunger or fix Israel-Palestine but I know – I hope – that I can make a house filled with love. Sometimes I want to work in the White House and be important and walk down hallways and rattle off polling stats and bill details and congressional races at the tip of my tongue. Sometimes I want to be a writer with two cats named Jane and Josephat who creates fantastical words with the sweep of my pen.
Sometimes I want to be a nun. I want to chant the hours and go to Mass everyday and be the Bride of Christ. Like St. Thérèse I want to be love in the heart of the Church.
I don’t know a lot of things.
The writer is a nineteen year old college student who is sleeping a lot more this year and thus writing a lot less poetry.