My two years in the pit were like I fell into a rabbit hole and pretty much never left since. I’m constantly ruminating about everything I lost. The good times, so to speak. I feel like almost nothing stops me from going into this endless lethargy. Something’s missing. I know that. My mind’s constantly escaping, almost as if dreams seem better than this dimension. Scared? The fuck I’d know.
So it’s freshman year 2012. I felt free for the first time. Free from all judgments, stares, limitations, you name it. I did well enough bullshitting my way through high school, but hey, I made it. Memories, coming back and forth, “I still can’t forget what they did. I needed them. I called out, but where was anyone? People who were supposed to be my blood think I’m wrong for pursuing my happiness; betrayal in its worst form.” It was something I held on to during my two and a half years in Ithaca, New York.
When you’re 18, you feel that you can consume the world. College was my playground where my social skills outweighed any sort of thought about my “future.” I mean I tried it, but it wasn’t really my priority when your goal’s to have a good time. I was working at a McDonalds two days a week just to pay for a 40 and smoke some 54s with my friend. I can still vividly remember kicking it at Ally’s place, all of us from different parts of the globe, yet still pulling through together no matter what was going on. After two years of being here, that rave night at some random frat house or party on the rooftop made me realize what truly mattered in life; it wasn’t a letter.
By August of 2014, two years passed, and that elongated festival became a distant memory. I was 20, and dropped out of college for the first time; anger and guilt became my way to cope. Everything I built, from relationships to friends, just vanished. Loneliness I haven’t felt since before I left home. I then dedicated my whole life working for some high end Italian place as a busser. I became a shell. I resigned from life with an idleness that I basked in until I moved west. Maybe it was the system, my friends, the energy, etc. Regardless, I still walked around every day through the quirky place I called my home for those years. That super friendly co-op at the edge of State, the little picturesque cityscape coming back from a long day in the mountains, the random trails that I’d go get to the nearest gorge and swim, etc. As my friends took me down to the bus out to the city, I faintly got a final whiff of menthol cigarette—it was a Marlboro 54.