I sit in my apartment, as empty as the day I moved in eight months ago, and let sadness find me. The Arkansas air hangs hot and heavy, as does my dread towards saying goodbye. Every gulp of humid air sits in my lungs and threatens to push my water table over. Finally, finally, the clouds roll in to cry, and I cry along with them. Spring is coming to an end, and my tears feel like warm summer rain.
I think about Anne of Green Gables. and orange popsicles, and falling in love, and Syreeta Wright, and doing the dishes, and what my friends will do this summer, and shooting stars, and whether or not we should trust our subletter, and how much I will miss the evening primroses, and most of all, how I hate saying goodbye.
The best way I can find to get through the whole wretched experience is to make it quick, and most of the time, not mean it at all. Because what I sincerely feel is that what you love always has a way of coming back around in some way or another.
It’s probably for the best that I take an extended leave from the mp3 files anyway. I don’t have much to say in the realm of albums, as I’ve turned into the version of myself that listens to the same five songs on repeat.
By the time you’re reading this, I’ll probably be on the trail. I’ve decided not to post updates on my substack after all, although I’m hopeful about staying somewhat active on youtube.
So goodbye to the void. For now.
MP