One month. (Time has been spread so thin.)
(Almost there.)
It was the same feeling of not-quite-discomfort that wafted around when I was about one month in to exchange in Taiwan. That strange notion of in-between time, when looking back is already too distant to recall, but there is so much more ahead before normalcy resumes, so you don’t even dare to think too far ahead into the future. Knowing that you had best learn to love this present, or at least trot along to its beat. Knowing its probably going to make you a better person, but first its going to stretch and pummel and bend you into shape, and it will hurt, and you have no choice but to roll with the punches, and it will hurt like hell.
And then someday you will be loathe to leave, and you will forget about how you felt now as you squint through a rosy-hued fog into the past.
But for now it is pseudo-adulthood and the sound of a soul meeting the serrated edges of the proverbial grindstone.
(Lesson of the week: Learn not to love your writing. Or yourself, even.)
