Against my expectations, this summer became an exhausting affair. I ended the school year teetering on a blowout of sorts, and looked forward to a break. After classes ended my summer never quite resolved itself into a real break: I had class daily for 3 weeks in a May intensive; family affairs for a week or so after that; orientation following not far after that.
While none of my myriad engagements quite took over my life (save orientation, but that was among friends) lingering obligations that trailed on from the Spring kept me from really stepping back from everything and making mental peace with myself. I had to look for a job (and got led on by a few employers, making the whole process even more frustrating), had to do debate work, had to begin working on the Disorientation Guide, etc. etc.
The point being that I never quite got into the groove of summer, never quite shook that feeling of being busy. Like, really busy. I don’t think people give credit to the labor that goes into being a student. All last semester, I worked the equivalent of 15 hour days, 6 days a week. 10 am to at least 1am, daily – and the last few weeks during finals, I often worked more than that.
After meandering through half the summer, I wandered into being over-committed again. I started freelancing with whatever free time I had; took up one internship, then another. Now, I’m back to working 12 hour days again, with only 2 weeks of summer left.
Last summer I read 33 books. That’s a lot. This summer I read much less, I’m not even sure I could reach double digits.
I began this break with some vague goals – meet lots of people, read some books… really get to know New York. For better or worse, I missed out on some of those, but succeeded in another way: I feel like I live here. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.