Allison here, your local Texan.
A year ago, Erica and I somehow convinced each other into making a blog. She has a long history of blogging, but her past websites have fallen abandoned after posting became infrequent and the initial desire to fling one’s thoughts into the void of the internet passed. Personally, I’ve always wanted to blog; the idea of maintaining a website feels reminiscent of coffee shops, yoga, and keeping my life neatly scheduled in a Moleskin journal. Erica had the experience blogging, I had the whimsical desire, and so, three hundred and sixty five days ago, Erica and I made this blog, amidst college applications and senior year.
But my final year of high school passed in a busy whirlwind of friends, a trip to Europe, and too much reading, and my summer days blended into a watercolor of vibrant memories. Without much warning, the end of August handed me a plane ticket to Waco, Texas, and I moved into a dorm room in a city I barely knew.
And so this is it then. This is college. Years of test taking, tears, transcripts, hoping, and planning has led me here, to this place. I sit in the science building of a university some 2,000 miles from my parents, surrounded by students already overwhelmed by their organic chemistry homework even though we’re only three weeks into the semester. Everything about the atmosphere feels academic. It emanates from the neo-gothic columns stretching down my field of view, dominating the landscape outside the glass walls I sit before. It seeps from the quiet whisper of keyboards, the intermittent low whirring of printers. The professors know more about their areas of expertise than I ever will. The students lug around textbooks filled with more information than they can hope to learn before their next exam. Libraries are filled with stained glass, old manuscripts, and scientific journals. High school never felt like this, even at my most intensive and studious.
I am at home. I wonder if I have ever felt so perfectly suited to exist in a space as this one. The word boundless comes to mind when I consider my future. It floats up before me, like a tangible thing. I play with the idea, I let myself become a scientist, a novelist, a professor, all in a fragment of a day. I change my major each conversation I have with another student; I’m studying biochemistry over breakfast but by noon I am reading Homer and Sophocles. I can learn these things, all of them; I can become these things, any of them. My future feels infinite and I suddenly have no desire to capture it. For at least a little while, I can let it run free, bounding before me.
So with this blog, and with Erica one hundred and one miles south of me, with my books and my calculator, and a mountain of assignments, I begin college. I begin anew.