"And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to break out of it."
--- rainer maria rilke, letters to a young poet

I've wondered, long and hard, about my own propensity to withdraw into myself, those times where I find myself happiest. For a long while I supposed myself selfish, not wanting to crowd my thoughts with those of others. Or perhaps it is my inclination towards reading; that indeed is a solitary occupation most often enough, and I certainly spend plenty of time in that realm to deem the pastime as as the offender. But I think it's something more than that. It may be selfish still, but I need it. I need that time to listen to myself and, most hopefully, find comfort in the sound. Without it, I wouldn't be so sure of what I thought, what I write, or even what I do. If I never took time to be alone, I wouldn't be much help among others.

I love being alone. I love surrending the day's activities to my mind, giving my thoughts full reign. I love the pleasure of saying to one's self whatever you may please without the rebuke of the world. Yet I find, amidst all this lovely, there's always that moment, that slight pull at your conscious: go, move, get out. I cannot be alone without thinking I must be lonely.

pillow fight

That about explains it.

Yeah.

for all it's worth

My books are spread across the floor, wide circles testament to midterms and procrastination. The Complete Essays of Montaigne teeters on top of a messy pile of science tomes. The phone is at my side, my staedtler pens arranged neatly in color order. Across from scribbled notes on Anaximander and Rhazes the Italian dictionary is open to scraziato and while I delight in the idea that one of my favorite words in English sounds just as pleasing in Italy the hall outside this room is echo-filled in laughter as girls dash from room to room, ensuring all know of their planned exploits. It is Friday night.

"You're going on a date? Again?" A squeal comes from across the way.
"Oh, please, Kat. She's always going on dates." The reply is muffled, scathing.

Beth laughs, that soft, gentle laugh that reminds me of a period movie.

"Who doesn't have a date tonight?" she replies as she pulls the door closed behind her.

I sigh, search through my notes on Pre-Socratics. Answer: I don't.

little steamed buns

That's what they're called. Eggs, sugar, milk. "like fruit snacks for chinese kids." Or so says the roommate.

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top ten : moments I miss

1. Rabbit Island Sunday afternoons
2. Olie-Bolen breakfasts among the market stalls
3. storms along the west coast
4. the opening strains of Primrose Lass from the corner of Trafalgar & Bridge
5. mad dashes from Girls College to Boys
6. Olivia being told off for talking in early-morning seminary
7. epic badminton matches, boys against girls
8. Samurai Jack on a school night
9. Tahunanui sand-dollar strolls at low tide
10. Sacrament Meetings where everyone sang