Common Ground
We park up against the failing fence near the bathrooms. We get out of the car, feel our feet on ground, and keep talking. A lot has come before us here.
We park up against the failing fence near the bathrooms. We get out of the car, feel our feet on ground, and keep talking. A lot has come before us here.
No life is a cliché. Ever. Because you are you and no one else—and the fact that it’s a cliché to say it doesn’t make it a cliché to live it.
When I wake up in the middle of the night, the first thing I do is check my legs. Often, during the night, I kick off my covers and wake up with my legs cold to the bone.
I over-share. I talk way too much about exes and bodily functions. I don’t want a world of “Laurens,” because no one would be able to finish their dinners.
Thankfully, over the past five years, my attitude towards my illness has changed from constant worrying and embarrassment to sarcastic apathy about its ridiculousness.
Our conceptions of heaven are the result of accumulated literature and its interpretations. But what if one had to choose a single literary epigraph for this Great Story?
Life no longer is about filing papers or planning for the future or buying groceries; it’s about going on quests and drinking with travelers in taverns and trading stories around a fire.
“Student death” is an e-mail subject line a teacher never wants to read. Yet, this past Friday morning I opened my internet browser to find these words neatly bolded atop my inbox.
What am I doing here, I ask myself in a moment of vulnerability. (I made a deal with myself months ago that I would stop asking that question.)
She asked me on the first date. I wasn’t exactly smart enough to know it was a date. We had agreed to go swing dancing downtown with some of her friends.