Someone should have warned us about the first summer away from home.
There were plenty of people around to do it too: upperclassmen, neighbors, strangers on the street. Someone should have sat us down and said very plainly, “listen, this will hurt.”
But no one thought to.
I’m sure we all thought about our last summers at home from time to time. A year had passed, twelve mere months, how did we suddenly feel like we lived in a different universe or in some alternate reality? We came from towns and cities back then, each known for things meaningless or bizarre—world’s biggest something or other—events not crucial to the outcome of the Revolutionary War. We had front porches and garages and held miserable jobs at dusty summer camps and poorly stocked convenience stores. Should we call those simpler times?
Everyone kept calling us bright, young things. We were young certainly—all nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Everyone kept calling us adults but we knew better. We were the human equivalent of colts in movies about famous racing horses, just learning how to stand—seemingly very confused about the function of limbs.
We were shiny and dumb, just waiting to be hoodwinked into thinking that crying on the living room floor was what life was all about. We were full of potential but also full of the beetle-like doubts that nestled themselves wherever dark thoughts found their home.
We were all spectacularly alone in rooms brimming with people. Converging on each other like radio waves fighting for dominance—fighting to be heard above the static that made up each day—fighting for anything that resembled fulfillment. It was all at once vicious and romantic. Petty and honest.
We would, without a doubt, destroy ourselves.
And someone should have warned us.
This is the preface to the August writing project I’m working on. I plan on updating everyday so follow that blog closely or I can just keep reblogging things from myself (which I feel weird about but will probably do anyways).