You know, for a long time, I thought I lost this part of me. The part of me that bubbles with inspiration, giggling to myself at two o’clock in the morning while my fingers crackle over the keyboard.

You know, memories are a funny thing.

My senior year of highschool, I, as every senior had before me, was required (i.e. forced) to write an autobiography. I found this slightly amusing, since we were only the blooming age of seventeen. How much is there to write about? We hardly knew who were then, how in the world would we know who were before? But I wrote. It was easy really. I wrote because I write. My life is not as interesting as some, nor as boring as others, and I had big dreams. That year, 1998, was a real turning point for me. I dumped my old friends for new ones, broke my curfew, challenged my parents, tried and enjoyed pot…

The funny thing is, as I page through that autobiography, titled ‘Ghost Train’, inspired by the Counting Crows and some obsure Adam quote, something that touched me so deeply, I can’t even remember it now, I realize I never wrote about that summer of `95.

I was too young, anyway. That’s what my English teacher pointed out. That I was one of the youngest people to be accepted to the prestigous Simon’s Rock College of Bard Writing and Thinking Program. I wanted to go, I really did. I was awkward and selfconcious and I still wanted to go. You know, I had this strange idea what friends were, what life was about, who I was. And the tragic thing was, every idea I had was wrong, so wrong.

You’ve never truly lived until you’ve sprawled out on the cold tile floor, laughing more than you’ve ever laughed in your entire life, laughing over the silliest things.

I was a sad, sad specimen of a person, I really was. I had such strange preconceptions of how people were supposed to act. I had no confidence to speak of but so many opinions I could hardly keep my mouth shut sometimes.

I met her in my writing class. We got paired up to write, what? I think some kind of autobiography? The memories are so blurred now, I can hardly remember. It wasn’t so long ago, it really wasn’t! I don’t know which one of us introduced the other to Kerry. Kerry was our fearless leader, the resident of room 15 in Crosby Hall. She was some kind of inspiration. She introduced us to the X-Files. She gave the writing I had done since I watched the Outsider a name, validation. Fanfiction. There were others, too. Tracey. Emily. Jenny. But none were as dear to my heart as Diana and Kerry. They made me believe in myself…made me believe that my life at home was not all there was. That I could be more than I thought. I was able to giggle, to roll on the floor, to make up code names and scream and laugh and have more fun than I’ve probably know in my entire life. It empowered me.

Things change, of course. We all stayed in touch for a while, visiting each other over Christmas breaks, communing at Kerry’s house to watch Batman Forever for the 300th time, to eat sunflower seeds washed down with Jolt. But they were all older than me and went off to college while I was still wallowing into my sophomore year of high school. And I’m a terrible letter writer. So we lost touch. I haven’t spoken to them in at least five or six years.

So I sat here after reading Diana’s(now Dae) journal entry, immersed in memories. Memories that were so close, so precious, I couldn’t share them with anyone. Much less my senior English teacher. And I cry for the kindred spirits who I’ve lost, and the ones I’ve discovered again. Not tears of regret, but tears of joy. Tears that they are still there for me, still writing, still their selves.

Diana. Kerry. Tracy. Emily. Jenny. I miss you all. Love you lots. Thanks for reminding me, Dae.


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