An Essay For Sarah, But Not Because She Asked
11 April 2008 at 3:22 am

When the trains pass by, they are louder than anything should be, at least at 4 in the morning they are. Moving here from San Francisco, I assumed every one was an earthquake until proven otherwise (namely, by the fact that, though the windows were rattling, they were not breaking. They would break, were it an earthquake. Also, I would be shitting my pants.)

I kid. I�ve lived through many an earthquake without ever once soiling a pair of pants. It�s my favorite natural disaster; it comes with next to no warning, lasts all of a minute, if that, but leaves behind a lifetime of destruction, if it did it right.

We could talk about Sarah, if we wanted to.

The thing of it is, the �we� in that sentence refers to solely Sarah and I. Because, we get it. And you never will.

The thing if it is, I feel like I�ve written many an ode to Sarah. But now it�s different, now that we�re older�one of us is married, and the other is an emotional infant; one of us lives on the east coast and one of us lives on the west coast; neither of us is employed in any capacity that relates to our respective degrees.

Sarah and I met through kismet, the essentially random selection of dorm roommates that occurs when you first go to college. She reminded me why we stopped living together in the first place:

�It was the overhead light,� she said in a dimly lit bar, sitting on dime store chairs, waiting to play pool on a miniscule table. Her husband sat across from her; his language skills didn�t matter at that point, as we were speaking a language known only to us.

�Holy shit, you�re right,� I may have said. �She couldn�t stand to have it on, and I couldn�t stand to have it off,� I clarified, for the husband. Didn�t matter; it still doesn�t make any sense.

But we are still, somehow, through that bullshit reason to get out of our dorm assignment (truthfully, we were too much alike in exactly the opposite way�Sarah gets it, but I don�t think you will), meant to be together, in some capacity. Everything makes more sense, even those things I had totally figured out, when Sarah understands what I�m talking about.

I want nothing but unadulterated happiness for my Sarah. She�s earned her idealism; now, she should reap only the benefits.

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About me
Hi. Morgan, 27, of Santa Barbara, CA. I am a hypocritical admirer of rhetoric (when it is my own) and an observer of literary trends. A secret: I don't take anything very seriously, and that includes myself.