Another old post, borrowed from the old blog. After returning from Valencia last summer, I spent the remaining 6 weeks before classes living on my own at the apartment, alternating between part-time work on grounds and interning with a Spanish professor during the week. It was fitting, after all, since my part-time job consists of me working with words on pages. Sometimes poetry, sometimes manuscripts of fiction novels, sometimes letters to old friends.
And working for upwards of 6 hours a day in almost total silence, save for an iPod plugged into my ears and a new set of texts by my side, I had ample time to muse about anything and everything. After a visit to Orlando that winter, though, and a looming final film on the horizon, my thoughts turned, unsurprisingly, to a childhood full of magic wands, flying broomsticks, and a boy with a scar on his forehead.