impressions of nineteen

In which I, yes, stare at the navel a little bit. I'm waiting for pizza in the festival line when the clock strikes midnight. We're sweaty, tired, and ecstatic all the same. Greasy cheese becomes a delicacy. K comes back from the washroom and I show her the time. Nineteen, I say with a shrug. She says the standard congratulations, and we wander home through residential Budapest. i. The window is open, breezy, smelling of the last traces of summer, and I'm all alone once again. Everything in my new room has found its rightful place, and all I need to do is take it in. After a whirlwind summer filled with tears of despair which turned into joy with the passing months, it's odd to be back where it all started again, ready for round two. I never sit still for that long, though, not when there's months to catch up on. Letters had been passed, of course. Updates written on kraft paper, lino prints, pressed flowers; little pieces of our homes back and forth. The written word is one of the…