It seems to happen every winter-- every January to be specific. The new year begins, and I begin to contemplate just
about everything that's going on around me. Is college really worth it? Should I have pursued writing? Why am I so
lazy? Do I deserve anything that I have? All these questions usually don't last too, too long, but they continually rear
their ugly heads, and they aren't things that can be cleared up with ridiculous lies and New Year's Resolutions. I drive
through the outskirts of Boston and around the Northshore of Massachusetts in my car, concentrating more on the lack
of a person in my passenger seat than on the road itself, longing for April's showers to bring me some May flowers. It's
always the darkest before the dawn, and that proverb rings true in more ways than I can count. I don't think we can
address a new year without reflecting on the previous one: easier said than done.
Along with this nasty, biting doldrums I seem to have acquired, I have since realized that I tend to bombard myself with
uncontrollable amounts of pressure-- I can't survive with it. I know myself, though. In three week's time, I'll be numb, the
way I usually am from February until April, occasionally dusting off my smile to laugh at my professor's unremarkable
remarks that he thinks are funny. I keep a scowl on my face throughout most the day and my headphones over my
ears-- not only is it a great way to avoid human contact, but it's a damn good way to block out the cold Boston winter. I
think a part of me enjoys it, the feeling that I'm at the brink at almost any given moment with seven tasks left undone,
teetering in the back of my mind like an itch that moves.
I go to school on a hill. To be precise, the most famous hill in the state; home to John Kerry and thousands of snotty
college students who inappropriately share walk-ups with the elderly. The walk from the train station to this hill is a
progressive one. Rather than being a normal person and commuting to Park St. Station and walking up the street, I get
off the monorail as soon as I possibly can, opting to walk through cold industrial mountains, slamming my loafers into
the ground with each sound that comes from my music. It's different in January, though. The music doesn't pulsate, so
much as swell, and the voices have a different type of attitude. I break out my Frank Sinatra records and try to unknot
any and all damage the previous year had done. It's like clockwork-- the second I find myself trudging through slush
and ice down the Causeway, I decide that it's time for some cool.
I must be a glutton for pain, both emotionally and physically. When the world gives me a 14-inch blizzard, I listen to
some of the coldest music known to man, letting a menthol-cool voice blanket me like a lullaby, regardless of the fact
that I may be at war with a sub-degree wind. With this briefly quiet retrospective, however, as I bundle myself up in a
blanket with Ol' Blue Eyes, I come to terms with everything that's happened: a cheating ex-boyfriend; unwarranted
break-ups, frustration, health issues, a loved one dying. Any of that is tucked away in a box marked "old news". Never
erased from my life, these events, or rather, their results, will affect me forever-- but when you rip the off the Band-Aid
and realize that the pain was all in your head and the scar has long since healed, isn't life just a tiny bit easier?
2008
about everything that's going on around me. Is college really worth it? Should I have pursued writing? Why am I so
lazy? Do I deserve anything that I have? All these questions usually don't last too, too long, but they continually rear
their ugly heads, and they aren't things that can be cleared up with ridiculous lies and New Year's Resolutions. I drive
through the outskirts of Boston and around the Northshore of Massachusetts in my car, concentrating more on the lack
of a person in my passenger seat than on the road itself, longing for April's showers to bring me some May flowers. It's
always the darkest before the dawn, and that proverb rings true in more ways than I can count. I don't think we can
address a new year without reflecting on the previous one: easier said than done.
Along with this nasty, biting doldrums I seem to have acquired, I have since realized that I tend to bombard myself with
uncontrollable amounts of pressure-- I can't survive with it. I know myself, though. In three week's time, I'll be numb, the
way I usually am from February until April, occasionally dusting off my smile to laugh at my professor's unremarkable
remarks that he thinks are funny. I keep a scowl on my face throughout most the day and my headphones over my
ears-- not only is it a great way to avoid human contact, but it's a damn good way to block out the cold Boston winter. I
think a part of me enjoys it, the feeling that I'm at the brink at almost any given moment with seven tasks left undone,
teetering in the back of my mind like an itch that moves.
I go to school on a hill. To be precise, the most famous hill in the state; home to John Kerry and thousands of snotty
college students who inappropriately share walk-ups with the elderly. The walk from the train station to this hill is a
progressive one. Rather than being a normal person and commuting to Park St. Station and walking up the street, I get
off the monorail as soon as I possibly can, opting to walk through cold industrial mountains, slamming my loafers into
the ground with each sound that comes from my music. It's different in January, though. The music doesn't pulsate, so
much as swell, and the voices have a different type of attitude. I break out my Frank Sinatra records and try to unknot
any and all damage the previous year had done. It's like clockwork-- the second I find myself trudging through slush
and ice down the Causeway, I decide that it's time for some cool.
I must be a glutton for pain, both emotionally and physically. When the world gives me a 14-inch blizzard, I listen to
some of the coldest music known to man, letting a menthol-cool voice blanket me like a lullaby, regardless of the fact
that I may be at war with a sub-degree wind. With this briefly quiet retrospective, however, as I bundle myself up in a
blanket with Ol' Blue Eyes, I come to terms with everything that's happened: a cheating ex-boyfriend; unwarranted
break-ups, frustration, health issues, a loved one dying. Any of that is tucked away in a box marked "old news". Never
erased from my life, these events, or rather, their results, will affect me forever-- but when you rip the off the Band-Aid
and realize that the pain was all in your head and the scar has long since healed, isn't life just a tiny bit easier?
2008
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| New Hampshire Writers |
| Cool by: T. Müller |