Such a different experience, it’s hard to believe I lived there for some three years.
I wonder how I would have faired if I had gone back, now, much older and a different person than I was then. I wonder if I would have stayed in Spanish classes, or focused on Art History (since leaving and going to Italy, I’ve learned exactly how much I know about the subject), or if I would still try to blend the MA and CS departments.
I wonder if all those secret things, like midnight kidnappings to parks of playing iron-clad children, would have still happened. And how it could have happened differently.
I wonder if all the emotion, the scars, the joy, and laughs would have been just as full of impact as they’ve always been.
I don’t regret going. But I sometimes regret leaving.
That’s a hard one to let go of. I am prideful and like to be perfect. That was a lifetime of practicing imperfection and realizing I’m not as hard as I pretended to be.
