Jennifer A. Chin (cswallow) wrote,
Jennifer A. Chin
cswallow

Release

 I write for an hour, my thoughts tumble freely for once. But my fingers trip somehow. The page refreshes, and I am staring suddenly at blankness.

There was something in them of other losses, of wanting to write many times in the weeks past, only to find the words rising like thorns in me. Words that I shoved back inside, horrified, like a gloveless gardener bagging brambles. 

There was also something of familiar dismay over the disarray of my room, clogged with the week's worth of laundry and dirty tupperware, the trappings of my life as a 9-5 employee and a dancer. This weekend, as every weekend, I attack it with Tide and Comet and a Swiffer.

I spoke also of my two short months here, the first of which was spent criss-crossing the country and quickly learning how to bike on the roads. The second of which was spent in deep self-reflection, urged by the sought-for but never-realized dream of making dancing my life.
And now at the end of it, I spoke of how I am at last connecting with the people here: accompanying my kindest of friends to a concert at the Kennedy Center, wolfing down burgers with the man who started me down my dance path, accepting with an open-heart the friends of my own dearest best friend, and experiencing true happiness at my favorite dance class.

But the poetry of those words is lost, like a child carelessly delivering her balloon into the sky.  Only the shape of it remains, and then not even that.

The words I wanted for this morning, however, were simple gratitudes. For although these eight weeks seemed quicker than I know how to express, I feel their effects flowing druglike in my arteries. I am closer and at a better understanding with my parents than every before.  I have seen, also, the truer natures of my friends. I have opened my mind to possibilities yet unspoken of what my career could be.  Perhaps best of all, I have no idea how to get what I want out of the future. For once, I have stopped planning and plotting and drawing out blueprints for what must be. For once, I do nothing more than reach inside myself for confidence and plow ahead.

Yes, I am still bound (or perhaps, I bind myself) in many ways by plans previously made. But today, I feel free. 
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