Sometimes, I feel like some parts of my life never happened. Like the fact that I studied science for three years... progressing from a level to another, each class more mystifying than the one before, until the names of the classes were clean forgotten in the difficulty of it, leaving me with the memory of its suffix -ology.

I can easily dismiss the beauty of the places I've lived in, been to. The people I've met- Ana and her poetry she tried so hard to translate, Manuela and her contemplative laughter, Monica's Japanese worthy mannerisms... I can hold on to these imagery of them, but there is no depth, love or loss.

I woke up from a dream about my old housemate last night. I think about her from time to time, modeled a poem after her... but I don't miss her- as lovely as she was, and I suspect, will always be. I saw her being my housemate as a fact I accepted with open arms and mind, out of pragmatism above anything else.

I don't really know how to attach myself to anything.