Nothing exciting has happened to me lately, mostly on account of the fact that school has become a giant blob of tests and winter clothes and loudspeakers playing Mozart and nihilism and unrequited feelings. I would wish for summer, but that presents another problem entirely: boredom.

People say that it’s impossible to get bored in big cities like New York, but I beg to differ. Right now, I wish I were in the country. I want to walk in the woods at night when everything is quiet and stars populate the sky and fireflies illuminate my path. I want to trade in smog and sewage for fresh air, even if it’s only for a minute. I want to spend the day picking daisies in a meadow and then throw them all into a burbling creek. I want to read Sylvia Plath in green fields. I want to bask in yellow sunlight while staring up at frothy clouds in a pure blue sky. At this moment, I just want my life to be a poem. This is the most free I’ve ever felt writing a weekly diary, and this sensation is lovely. ♦