Twenty

I lay on my bed in my room in my home that is no longer my home because you know I moved away to college and now a hostel room is my home and I won’t whine because it’s really quite a nice room. Tears formed in my eyes yes and it verged on pathetic and my mother sat in the chair and waited and I mumbled from under the sheet in that way that so many children have I think I’m depressed. She took me seriously and perhaps I should admit that this caught me off guard a little because I don’t think I wanted to be taken seriously and she said Yeah? genuinely concerned. I said Yes, I think so and she asked Um and I said I mean, college is fine, and my friends are great, and he’s great, and I’m liking this semester a lot, and nothing is really wrong and we came to the conclusion that everything was too fine and that sometimes that takes a while getting used to. Then we talked about writing and I’m quite sure that I want to be a writer too and it’s a little scary because it’s no longer an option it’s already begun happening like some bad habit I might want to put off a little till I am older and people can call it quaint but I am young and I must write and I want to make something of my writing and myself and Lord my name is on the line What line? you ask and I point there to that line across my forehead that says Writer and do you see it because I think it’s growing darker and some people say they think it’s highlighted and believe me it’s just the sweat from all the words I can’t digest and I took a sponge to my forehead and I scrubbed the line and I scrubbed it some more and I went to my desk and got a black marker and I tried changing the w r i t into l a w y but it just won’t go and so I came here and wrote and my God am I grateful.

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