If my freshman year were a book it would not be organized into perfectly neat pages
All parallel lines full of beautiful metaphors and words that mean things

It would be written in barely legible handwriting- and it would say things like “I have no idea what I’m doing”

Because I don’t

And the pages would be stained with coffee and tears
and all the things I’ve given up on in this past year.
¬
They say change is good but they don’t talk about how hard it is to get there

Sure
¬
it’s better when it’s over and you’re where you want to be but it took me fourteen months and I can still feel the sting

There are people who have questions that I will never answer and I’m still not sure if it’s because I don’t want to or because I don’t know how

But if my freshman year were a book it would be full of questions I never got the answers to either

When I was four years old I stood on my front porch and asked my mom why we had to have airports.

I said

“Why can’t the planes just fly to me?”

I am sixteen now

and I know that nothing is ever that easy.