Seven Nights

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I AM WRITING THIS out of fear. Out of fear of the seamless transition. Of not having noticed that I’ve grown up. No initiation, no final exam. I simply floated into thirty. Got all the degrees, always showed up on time, smiled a lot, not much crying, cried a little, but mainly smiled. Jumped onto many bandwagons, took a short ride, then changed direction. I’ve traveled to distant places.

I know my way around the world. Have spoken with a lot of people, seen a lot of images, heard a lot of voices. Stood in the wind, here and there. But what really means something to me, what I really believe, I cannot say. Where I want to go, that’s much easier: up and up—the ladder is long.

I’ve never lacked ambition. Even in school, I was the first to class, ready for the teacher to confirm with a nod that I had scored the highest grade. When I arrived at university, I told the professors what they wanted to hear. I loved to see their faces light up when I hit the right tone at the right moment, when I referenced the theory they were waiting to hear. I betrayed my heart for them. And in the evening, washing dishes, told myself there would still be time for dissent. And I would visit Rome when the weather was nicer.

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