dispatch (n).

24ceedb765bf3f5abccbbd8bba2f51f5.jpg

I was envisioning sending out
a grand report of this glittery
new life I am supposed to be living but
everything has been quite prickly, like a
cranky wool sweater; I haven’t known
what to say. How do I tell you about
this city that smells like eucalyptus and
the lump in my throat that hasn’t
yet gone away, the people and their
heads full of codes and connections who
take scooters to work, the thrill of skipping
winter entirely, the growing list
of all the things I don’t know, and
the moments I catch myself thinking: when
is it going to start? And then
I have to point out: this is me, living.

How do I tell you about all of the questioning
and all of the awareness and
all of the unknowns that come with
trying to figure out how much the bus costs or where
to buy a decent sandwich, not to mention
all of the questioning and
all of the awareness and all
of the unknowns like why
did I come here and what
am I to do?