infidelity.

Today I am 22. I haven't been a palindromic age since I was 11. I'm 11 years farther from birth since then. It seems to me that babies should cry not only to force air into the lungs, but to mark the start of the journey away from their own beginnings.

Lately I've been tearing away from my own beginnings in an especially violent way, but at the same time...not. Some days I don't recognize my life, but for superficial reasons. The way that I'm becoming less afraid of talking in large groups. I'm studying Chinese. I'm an art history minor now, instead of photography. I hate the idea of forcing an artistic vision in a medium I no longer care for. I might drown in all the 'pluralism's and 'dialectic's and all the other highfalutin verbiage in art history, but I just want to learn. And look. I don't know what I expect to get out of it, or find. But I like it, and I think that's all I need right now.

Proposals for honor projects are due today. I wish I'd thought more carefully about my future back when my options were more flexible. Every time I see Avi, I think how little time we have before I graduate, which leads me to think of how soon that is, which makes me think how ill-prepared I am for life in the real world, and how I wish I could do something about that now, but how it's too late. The only reason I want to do an honors project is to force myself to write: the thing I love the most, but the thing I fear the most because of its precarious position as my love and my potential to fail so thoroughly at it. I could write like mad on my own, but I feel like such a mad project would be better directed with feedback from higher-ups. Maybe that's my problem - bestowing legitimacy on my own endeavors, without outside guidance.