This morning, I drove through some rainy country roads. Whenever I leave the city, I am suddenly aware of just how much of a toll my rather mundane daily life takes on me.
It’s been a hectic last few weeks. Driving through the corn fields of my hometown and finally tuning into the supple sound of nothingness, I let recent encounters with my friends replay in my head.
It takes years, decades, millennia even to build something worth preserving. It takes seconds for that same thing to be demolished.
What a horrific thought.
There’s been a contagious air of mass destruction around me in the last few weeks in the shape of seven breakups. Over messy emergency late-night debriefs and brunch plans planned like a month ago, we have all been busy exchanging dramatic life-changing stories.
In my last newsletter blast, I polled my fellow early 20s friends: have you hit an existential crisis this summer? 70% answered yes, 30% answered no.
There is a collective sense of turbulence. So much is in flux, and often voluntarily so. I’m not sure what’s happening, but we are all choosing to completely demolish the homes we’ve been building and to build them again from scratch.
