This place is beyond hipster. But it’s also sci-fi. This place is easily the brightest place on the block. There are hanging foliage along the walls. Everything else is blindly white. When I first walked in, I thought I had stumbled into a futuristic lab where they genetically modify babies. Why am I here? This place is not my kind of place if I were honest with myself. No, I prefer the squalid coffee shop down the street, where the decor is tacky like an old western saloon, with swinging doors that will slap your ass if you’re unaware of them. I’ve made friends with writers there, but I’ve forgotten their names. The few baristas I’ve befriend have mostly left save for Kenny, who will be putting in his 2 week’s notice soon enough. I have this tendency of disliking a place when I notice people going on with their lives and I’m still around. I can’t help feeling like I’m not somehow progressing. I hate that feeling of being stuck, and I know it’s silly and in my head. There’s something jittery about me; I like to move around a lot. I fidget a lot. I can’t seem to get comfortable anywhere for too long. Though I’ve acclimated in this spot, it still feels off in some sense.

I’m trying to quit the habit of saying what’s for me and what’s not for me. I’ve found that once I’ve stopped labeling places and things to do as me or not me, whole new worlds have opened for me. And I’ve been enjoying life more because of it. It’s good to have a strong grasp of one’s identity, but to have a death-hold on it, well, that’s an unchanging, tedious life. Who am I? I like to say I don’t know. But I know perfectly well who I am.

I’m the newby at the boxing gym, but many people have taken me under their wings. I’m learning a lot and it’s good to sweat, really sweat… I talk about my feelings with people when they ask -a lot about relationships, finding oneself, the difference between being in love and loving someone. And when life is slow, I find myself slumpy and sad. I’m good though. I’m good. I’m good. I can’t be not good.