I wrote about August last year. About crickets and cement stoops, and even if I never addressed it, how New York becomes another world during the summer.
This year August scares me, like everything lately. The sound of the crickets makes me anxious and makes the palms of my hands clammy. My mind is swimming with questions that I have no answers to and that scares me too.
For some reason summer feels unfamiliar. I laid in the sunlight with a book propped up on my knees and I imagined thick sweaters, wool socks, and stews so thick they stick to your ribs.
I don't want to move into flat 101 on August 25. I want to move into room 21 in Islington, London instead.
I know I am no one's protagonist. I hate that fact.
The only thing I can think of is how unfamiliar the end of college feels. Everyday it creeps closer and closer and without the bold faced title of "student" hanging over my head, how will I even know who I am?
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