My flat mates don't the know the difference between the smells of weed and incense. Isn't it lucky for them I'm here to give them an education in this; and religious divisions, political change, indie music and cooking with pulses.
God, I wonder what they think of me, and if they think of me at all.
I won't be here much longer and as they go house-hunting in the twilight grandeur of Bath, I look up current conversion rates and think about the different life I'll have by Fall. Chemistry is out, kids! My counselor seems to suggest I care to much about what people think of me. I think now about who might be reading this. Do you think I write well? Shall I make a career of stringing sentences? Can anybody these days, though?
I don't know that I want a career. I want a life. Occasional happiness and lots of busyness. To fall asleep each night knowing my mind has stretched, the content sleep of learning. I fear the 9to5 if it's robotic and dull. I can't do the same thing over and over again. If I believe in what I'm doing, I'll work hard.
I'd like to live with the man I love and would be the proudest wife ever. Are prayers and good intentions enough to keep couples together? I recite i-love-you's like a liturgy, something I mean always but imagine the feeling must fade.
Do old married people long for a connection with each other, remember the past, the way I remember the 'passion of my youth' for God. You snigger now, you over 30s? I presume to call myself old. Well in this sense, I have passed the blissful time in which I imagined my fervour could be kept in flame by occasional efforts and didn't know the ache of 'hope' or 'wait'.
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