and the earth slowly crumbles because it is rained upon, a force too relentless, driven by an unseen rage in the sky. the sky is a cathartic being, and it does not abstain. the world is its outlet. it surrounds the spherical grooves and wraps upon the atmosphere like a baby's hand to its mother's fingers. somewhere in a little brick building, i watch the turmoil unfold like a drama waiting to be performed. had this story been told merely three months ago, some houses might still be standing, some lives might still be unfurling.
rain in southern California is an almost broadcasted event. it's rare enough to be notable, but a thunderstorm is a story that provokes gossip amongst the most bored of us. chatting about the weather is an acceptance of our reality.
somewhere here, i am stranded out of my dorm room and typing this in the brick coffeeshop just across from the career center from whence i came. the weather app is just as deceitful as the weather. to the sky, we hear you all too clearly.
this is where i admit to forgetting who i am. it's always application season, ostensibly, and i'm eyeing a fellowship for media artists that i don't think i'll get, but i'll apply for anyway. i can't convince myself that i'm up to par with those 10 years older than me who have PhDs and Fulbrights and large exhibits up their sleeve. i can never quite convince myself that i'm up to their level, because for every application, there's always an award that i'm missing or a project that i haven't finished in time to write about. i so strongly dislike the way i'm expected to market myself like an ever-updating product to fit an ever-updating set of expectations. all i want is to explore, and i'm still afraid of putting in so much work for an inevitable disappointment. i suppose i could just use my writing prompts for something else, but the twinge of self-doubt still haunts me. i'm 21. only 21.
i need to do the things i want to do. i want to live my life by perpetually exploring, but when does that exploration go too far? i am not my work (i'm 21) but then i won't be 21 (i'm 21) and i'd wish i did more when i was 21 (i'm 21), so why can't i do more right now? will i just turn back to regret the fact that i didn't apply to something i didn't know existed? did i ever have a chance? there is always 43 minutes until the rain stops and 43 minutes until i can supposedly walk back to my dorm, dry. this is where i curse myself for not having the sense to wear boots or bring my umbrella this morning, because it was warm and sunny before the clouds crept in. the storm just happens. the hour just changes. i am still 21, and then i just won't be.
i need to leave LA and i need to see where i want to be and who i want to become but it's a process i know i can't rush. the rain keeps coming and there's a concert tonight and tomorrow and sunday and i have an interview for an internship i don't really want in two weeks. i like how the water hits the asphalt and reminds me of my transient existence and two months later i will have graduated from an undergraduate college i've come to love. i am not what i create because i am only me, a person who creates (an action that is far too enigmatic).
a metal balloon from valentine's day is still stuck in the tree. all the helium has been sapped from its body and the shell clings onto the branch as it twirls around in the cold. it is meant to fly and it cannot, and no one can easily reach that high to free it from flight. or perhaps the balloon is liberated from flying, diverging from its commodified function and staying instead. items that are meant to be dynamic gain a new narrative when they are forced to be static. the balloon is not a Balloon with a capital B. the balloon is only itself, The balloon with a capitalized "The," and i'm now forced to confront whether i want to be human or Human. whatever that means. likely it means nothing and this letter has become a set of morning pages i'm writing at 4PM.
and now the rain has abated just enough for me to return to my dorm
i speak of "corporate" like it is a dark shade of morally gray. "corporate" has become nearly an insult. i think of those who are unoriginal and obedient and hiveminded with the others in the body and suddenly everyone is no longer human, but rather cells walled in the grays of brutalist buildings and 5-foot cubicles. maybe i am simply traumatized by my last corporate internship experience, and it is likely because that experience was the most corporate a corporate working space can get.
and then i look at all those artists i want to become, or all those published scholars i cannot yet identify with, because i am not yet among them and (again, i'm 21) feel like the moment i become among them, my eyes would be laid on something else. there is no peak or end goal or sign that marks the highest i can go, because all the mountains are shrouded in fog and hikers have told me there are higher. my sights are set on nothing in particular, but is that any better than having sights set on something that doesn't exist?