I came here in the last week of August

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and just like that, a month has passed, quicker than I can think to say “dōjeh” instead of “mh’goi.” There remains not much to tell except that I am well — that nothing’s up, I’ve little progress to report, but I am managing the quotidian in a way that gives me little reason to welcome disruptions to my everyday. I wear this new life like a skin by slipping into a mantle of old habits: buying the same kinds of goods off supermarket shelves, making coffee with a French press in the morning, practicing yoga when I can, wearing black to work. I have been making friends and learning how to swim and how not anxiously to be in the water, or in love. I try not to stay in the office too late, to wake up with the rising of the sun and to sleep before midnight, but in these I have been failing. There is always so much to do. I read too slowly and squander minutes, and feel always at a loss over lost time. Elsewhere, autumn colors the trees and the pavements in fire; this morning my view from the window was sleet gray with residential towers and rain. Still, there are spaces for joy–as when I dive into the pool and lose sense of sound and see only refractions of light in the blue water. When I take my washing from the tumble dryer and feel my clothes clean and warm in my arms. When I walk back to the dorm late at night, bopping to The 1975. When I think of him smiling as he opens a book or a door, when I hear his voice, smooth and mellow, like milk tea, calling my name.

 

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