Breakfast. At Appi.
My mum sat in the massage chair (it is nearly 10 years old now, and I remember being excited when the delivery men brought it over.) and asked me what I wanted to do after I graduated.
Graduation happens this November.
Officially, I won’t be free from this school until next July when I collect my scroll and wear my robes, but this November I’ll have to start on the next part of my life, whether I like it or not. Which is rather ironic, because 23 years ago I had to start my life whether I wanted to or not. It’s surreal having to embark on another journey on my birth month. I’m terrified because I want to work as a photographer, as a writer, as a creative something but I don’t now how to go about doing it. I’m groping about in the dark, literally because my eyes are clouded with this dream and I don’t want to fail because that would mean a thirty year old me teaching MacBeth in a classroom full of wide-eyed and bushy-tailed kids who know nothing about failing in life.
I don’t want to disappoint my parents, who have already faced so many in their life. But somehow or other, I know that I will disappoint them; I already have but they’ve taken it in their stride and let me carry on in my own flumbustered way. So it terrifies me that I will continue on this lifetime of disappointment if I’m not careful.
When I was at Rikuzentakata a week ago, I stood at the site where two houses were completely razed to the ground, and I thought, “I could live here.”
It was a strange thought to have, with everyone working around me.
I should put up the photos I took with my iPhone. I have a roll of film. I’m not sure how they’ll turn out because my compact C1 refused to rewind the film up properly. I had to manually pry the negatives out in the bathroom while my roommate was away. I hope they survived the bathroom jaunt.
I’m hungry.
