9 crimes

This estrangement is irrevocable, it seems. I don’t know. Going off campus today made me so unbelievably cheerful – and returning, heavy, once again. More than anything, I don’t believe in it anymore; I can’t reconcile the contradictions and the hypocrisies, intended or otherwise, and I think I’ve given up trying.

I like these people, I just don’t think I can continue living with them. My perception of people has changed, and I’ve realized that friendship means different things with different people, and I’m beginning to accept the variety of my feelings towards the people with whom I choose to surround myself. All these thoughts are incessant and unavoidable, even as I know with graven certainty that I will miss some aspects of this place dearly. That anticipation of regret is not enough, however. I wonder if this will be the case in university, too, a profound dissatisfaction with the place in which I find myself. I hope not. University has been an amorphous, distant but dear dream for much of my life, one that I’ve accustomed myself to as something far flung into the future. The disappointment seems too weighty to bear, should I find in place of that dream the pale consolation of an all too inadequate reality.

In other words, began Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own on the bus to Langford today. The first few pages were a riot. In (more) other words, tonight the Cambodian first year and the Thai second year made ginger chilli chicken legs. It smelt scrumptious; the first bite tasted so sharply familiar I could cry. I had sixths, I think. I miss home. I just don’t know which one, anymore.


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