This week in Boston was overwhelming. Everyone is on the brink of being done, and in a lot of ways so am I. Boston, Emerson, was a perfect fit for me. I can leave saying that I have nothing but love for it. What a four years it has been. Cheers to the night dancing in the reflective pool of the Christian Science Center the night Obama was elected President of the United States. Cheers to PRow, Colonial, maybe even LB, and Aberdeen. To Allston. To you. I owe a huge part of who I am to what I’ve learned here. On that note, it’s time to move on.

The group has shrunk. We are no longer a crowd of twenty or thirty, there are people who I run into and I am happy to see them and that is that. It’s standard, it’s not a bad thing, I have been blessed by the people I know I will keep with me when I leave here. When I sign that Brooklyn lease, when life begins in a new city. To say they are more than enough doesn’t begin to do them justice.

One of my previous posts mentioned the presence of pain in my life, my own and others. I got lost in it. When that happens, everything else falls away from you. You forget every other part of yourself. You begin to identify with your pain. You exist to feel it.

Last night, I talked to Taylor about Milos. The boy. The first loss of a good friend. I told her about the way we loved each other, its electricity, the way we would wake each other up in the middle of the night with some new idea of how to change the world. The way nights blurred into mornings, the awareness of our breath. Our beating fucking hearts. It put everything back into focus. With those memories, others came back too. I was back in context, proud of what I am, what I’ve done, and where I’m going. Does this matter to you? Maybe it should. Claim your story. Sure, get lost, make a point of it, but return to yourself. Don’t go too far.

PS, sorry for the recent influx of selfies.
Also, I really want to go back to Sleep No More.