stasis be the enemy

Ohhh, the sweet sounds of sliding into that state of regression - post college kid hanging around the university, drinking out of bagged wine, breastfeeding from an easypour spout in the middle of an alleyway. Age is undeniably a bullshit marker of maturity and importance, but there is a notable difference in your actions when you drink and are simultaneously aging inchingly toward 21. It's that classic teen struggle to get as much liquid as physically possible into your body and trusting with courageous naivety that the rest will work itself out. 

Age should be qualified by the way people around you see it. It's impressive how quickly the twinkle and nostalgia of 23 can fade from the eyes of the middleaged man you met on the train, turning into that fear and disdain of 23 that comes from a sophomore in college, crossing her two biggest toes in her wedges hoping desperately she doesnt end up like you.

"But you can always regress then reprogress - stasis be the enemy" Becca tells me. And in this process of traveling, all i could ever hope to do is try on various lifestyles, because thats what festers in the heart of all cities. This is my worlds first glowing opportunity to do and be the spaces that i'll be hoping to study further. The notion tingles inside and gets me all giddy and dances london bridge around my hangover. Must be reminded of those four words, carve them into my skin, eat them with my oatmeal, iron them onto the tag of my pants. Stasis be the enemy. Alright LA, i see you.

Qutting

I've considered quitting breakfast - day three of this parasitic idea sits on my throat while i down a second cup of coffee and finish off a granola bar. Monumental change such as this doesn't come sweeping in by any revolutionary force, no. Like all life-altering decisions, this is based in necessity, and as my wrangled stomach  faces off with my new-found reality of a woman on the road, i start to see myself slip away. Is this the self-discovery that so many twenty-somethings pine for? Is this the self-creation intended for the college graduates of America? Can I dare reinvent myself into a breakfastless type?

I imagine waking up and rolling down the street into a diner. Filling my chipped mug with coffee, the ponytailed waitress without looking up from her pad asks, "Anything to eat?"

"No, i'm quitting," I wave off and leaf to the crossword in the local paper. 

I've seen that Person in restaurants, known them to exist in my day to day life, but never had One as anything more than acquaintance. They are great conversationalists if the subject pleases Their fancy; They hold an attractive yet noticeable scowl on Their face, one that only begins to blur at later hours of the evening; They read nothing trite or trashy, have no interest in the kind of frivolity that could cause an eye-roll or two; They have no drive and so no fear of disappointment; They are already disappointed.

I haven't quite embarked for the unknown yet, still splayed across this green and beige checkered couch in SW  Portland. But it's day four of my journey down south and i'm already seeing the telltale signs of the breakfastless folk weave into my netting. Maybe a big meal will help revitalize me. Maybe hashbrowns and two eggs over easy on a homemade biscuit. Maybe i'm responsible for snapping myself back into the world of wonderment, frivolity, and a sense of purpose, no matter how contrived. The question of whether anyone can really change lingers in the quarter inch of my lukewarm coffee and i wonder what kind of hunger i'm feeling.