The Story of a Flaneur

  I've finally completed a draft of my statement of purpose!!! Breaking this writer's block is no joke people. I'm amazed of how bashful I've become, I use to never be this way. Writing has always been a necessity for me and I wonder how I manage to cope with the days I don't get the chance to write. There has to be a way I release the tension and stress-- in any case I broke the writer's block.
  These past few weeks have been intense. Looking for a place right at the start of my last semester is no fun, especially with applications breathing down my neck. This is why I haven't had the chance to blog but I'm finally putting this all behind me and focusing on the remainder of my stay in Berkeley. The reminder of my stay, that sounds so strange to think out loud. I've grown so attached to this place that I don't think I'm ready to leave. A few weeks ago I was back in LA and I began to picture myself living there again, but all I saw were fuzzy images... fuzzy images and the enveloping dry heat I once loved. Past tense because I'm not the same person I once was. Neruda says it best: "Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos."
  I have such a superficial cognizance of Los Angeles now, but I try to hold on to what I can-- what was once there. I'll walk through the streets I was once familiar with, but I sense the detachment of a former lover. The heat touches my skin, I glance around but I just can't register what I once felt as I'd walk through those streets... I suppose this is the outcome of an individual who has chosen to step away from what they were once so familiar with. In any case, I know these fuzzy images can be polished-- that's what's so wonderful about humanity-- we learn to adapt.
  I'm a hopeless romantic, without a doubt. Sometimes I romanticize situations too much, but that's not always a bad thing. I say this because as I began to sort through the unfocused images of K-town, Glendale, Eagle Rock, Highland Park, and Riverside (I moved a lot), I saw a hint of possibility. Maybe this detached, former lover can reciprocate more than I'm giving them credit for. Maybe through this blanket of heat I can feel the residual effects of what was once familiar. In any case, I'm just typing out loud (TOL). The reality is I can only imagine so much before I'm left with the fact that I'll be ok; no matter where I'm at or what I'm doing, I know I'll be OK. Is this hubris talking? I'd like to think it's something more reflective-- something more responsive to my past. A requited, former lover maybe... Like I said, I'm a hopeless romantic.