Corey Hutchins completed her Master's degree in Renaissance Literature at the University of Edinburgh. Her undergraduate degrees are from the University of Oklahoma in English and Music, and she received awards for her honors theses in both subjects. Upon graduation, she was presented the Mary Gray Thompson award for outstanding contributions to the University of Oklahoma Weitzenhoffer Family College of Fine Arts. Her poetry has been published by Windmill, Shinshi, a handful of stones, and Deep South Magazine and her thesis is published on Dissertation.com. Her service and work are dedicated to her late fiancé, 2nd Lt. Geoff Street, USAF.

Wandering (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)

Your mind just caught up with your body, walking down the same old cobblestones you always do. How or why you wound up there, you're not quite sure, but there you are, tracing your steps from yesterday, Friday, last week, last month. Were you hoping you'd find something different? Hoping you wouldn't end up at the same corner? Hoping you would end up feeling something else? Hoping you'd feel something?

You notice the gray on your shoes getting darker as your umbrella fails to cover you completely. At least, you think, you're not too cold. Throwing on that other jacket was a good decision. That you managed to make one was a feat in itself. That you managed to pull yourself together enough to go outside again was, too. And there you are, following your normal pattern, the result of hours of sitting alone in your room thinking you should really go do something.

But returning library books isn't really doing much of anything. It's just taking care of the task you set up for yourself for the day. You know, the one you have to make so you feel you've accomplished something. Anything. Laundry is no longer a menial task that eats away time you'd otherwise spend enjoying yourself, sipping coffee in a café or reading a book or throwing your head back and laughing with a friend. It's a life-saving goal. You've lost a day if you don't do your laundry or read that article or go to the store for milk. But certainly not all in the same 24 hours. You have to spread those goals thin like the mayonnaise on your turkey sandwich, just enough to get the job done. Just enough to keep you sane, act as your safety net. As long as you can count on having something most days. Something as small and insignificant as laundry.

Somehow in the midst of all this thinking you've managed to finish returning your books and walk back out into the rain, which thankfully is calming down. You wind your way around the construction to get back to street with your favorite book store. The one you've gone to twice a week since you moved here. But on your way your body intercepted your mind and took you right into a health food store. Guess that's what happens when you don't pay attention to yourself.

But how could you pay attention? Why would you give yourself any more time of day than anyone else does? Sure, there's the one boy who thinks you're everything, but he can't possibly be right. He's just one person. One person making a huge mistake, and soon enough he'll realize that and leave like everyone else has. Like everyone else.

You wonder if walking into that store was providence, or something. Maybe you were drawn here for a reason. Maybe you'll find something that will make your day or change your mood or change the dreary existence you keep trying to convince yourself should go on, of course, because it has to. You see a favorite tea from back home and decide it's a sign you have to keep going, so you reach into your purse to hand the man a few heavy coins and wind up fifteen minutes later handing him a bill for some chocolate and dried fruit along with the tea. He was nice enough to give you a cup of chai just as you were about to check out, and certainly that means that you have to give his little shop more of a chance. Maybe you could see it as a place to frequent, not just someplace to mindlessly wander into on rainy days when you're feeling homesick and alone.

But really, wouldn't that be frequent enough? Ever since you got to this cold grey town of crying stone you've felt cut off from the world, from your family back home, from your past accomplishments, from your college friends, from the one boy who feels like he could really love you if you just let him. You don't really have any purpose here, no reason for waking up, no reason for setting those meaningless goals except to keep waking up and setting meaningless goals and trying to keep from starving in your closet of a living space. Living generally seems to be the only thing to do right now and that just doesn't feel like enough.

It wasn't that long ago that everything just seemed right. You did quality work, made a difference in your community, had lots of close friends, and insatiable ambition. But what makes you any better than that street musician you just passed? You have little sympathy for him, who's little better than a beggar to you, but that could as easily be you right now, playing a harmonica and tapping a tambourine with your foot while you artlessly plow through the strings of a guitar. He's doing something. What have you to do?

I came here for a degree, you argue to yourself. When I get through this, I'll have another title. But what good will that title do? Will that make you feel more fulfilled? Will that make this year any less of an emotional void? Will that make you feel worth it?

How many nights will you cry yourself to sleep for it? How many days will the only thing you have to wake up for be your morning cup of coffee? How many times will you cry to the boy and, thick-tongued, assure him you love him when you don't even love yourself? How can you know anything? How can you think any of this is worth it? You don't even believe you are.

So you walk past the bookstore, which certainly is closed, and vacantly toss these ideas in your head. You can't possibly answer all your own questions. They're too painful to consider, too painful to acknowledge, even. You try not to ask yourself any more, try not to let it happen as the bones your soul once inhabited gently carry you back to your hole in the wall, your personal hell.

You should listen to the boy. You should let him in. You don't have to push him away just to make yourself more miserable, just to make your devastation complete. You should let him love you. You should let yourself love him. Like you always have. Why has anything changed? Why should anything have changed? Why does it make a difference that you won't see him for months? Why does it feel like the world will end before then? That your world will end before then? Why would you even let yourself ask?

By this time you've already walked up the stairs and guided your key into the door to once again unlock your loneliness. You chose to live here, you remember. You chose this degree, this college, this city, this complex, this flat, this room. Perhaps you didn't realize everything that came with it. The surprise in the bottom of the box. But this is what you've got. This is what you're stuck with. You're stuck wandering the streets aimlessly, sugar-coating your emotional vapidity when talking to old friends, who could hardly understand why you'd be so unhappy in a place so beautiful, doing something so wonderful, something they'd all kill to do. What are you supposed to say when they tell you they envy you? That you wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy, let alone your closest friends?

So you sit at your desk again and wonder what to do with your hour, your day, your life, and realize you have no idea. You half-heartedly look for clubs and classes, peer through job listings, conveniently forget you have work to do, and wish you would just stop feeling like this. What right have you to be miserable? What right have you to make yourself miserable? To make the only person you love miserable? The only person who loves you?

You feel like part of you is tearing away from yourself. The self-confidence and self-love you used to have seem rapidly to fade and you feel like you're watching this shell of yourself go through the motions. You can't handle your own duplicity, not even sure which parts of yourself have separated and which have stayed. Have parts of you picked sides? Is what little hope you have left teaming up with your love for the boy in trying to brow-beat the rest of you into accepting that things will be okay eventually? But how soon is eventually? You feel like you can't make it until November when he'll finally come here, miraculous as God appearing as a flaming bush. You believe it almost as much as that fairy tale. Surely by the time he arrives, and surely he'll have to since he already has a ticket, you'll cry to him as you try to pick up the pieces of the relationship you tried to throw away with your selfishness, your burning desire to rid yourself of any happiness. You don't deserve it, remember?

No. You can't let yourself go down that road. Things will be fine. They have to be. It can't get worse than this, and why should it? Stop feeling sorry for yourself, damn it. Get out of your flat. Find something to do. Start a hobby. Take up yoga. Take up fencing. Take up something, anything, to make your mind stop wandering down these dimly-lit alleyways. Nothing is just going to happen to you unless you give up and let other people take over your life. You have to take control again. You have to, damn it. You can't live like this. This isn't living. This is history repeating, your history, and you remember what this was like last time. Don't throw yourself away.

You resolve to stick it out, to keep your chin up and blow the dust off the purpose you once believed you had. You feel a bit stronger, a bit relieved that you won't go quietly into the night. But you're not sure where to begin, so you decide to wait until tomorrow. Just like you did the last time you "convinced" yourself that you'd be okay. Everything will be better tomorrow, you argue. But tonight I'm tired, so I'll make a cup of tea and watch TV. So once again you put off your work, put off your emotions, and bury yourself in something meaningless. You'll do the same thing again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Until you finally pick yourself up and do something. Anything.

Your mind just caught up with your body, walking down the same old cobblestones you always do.