293 Harlee Trautman



Philadelphia is the first new place I have lived in my adult life, and
it is a long way away from home.  Excitement surrounds my new
adventure, but it is also accompanied by the pressures of adult-ing
and making sense of the world.

After getting buried under piles of decisions, I got overwhelmed and decided to take a walk.  About half an hour in, I stumbled across a book of sorts, handwriting on white pages, intentionally cut and bound by staples.  It was the handwriting of a child, the letters legible, the words not so clear.  I pictured the author in the act of writing. I imagined all of the possible meanings of the text and wondered why this book was created.  I got lost in thought, totally invested in something I did not quite understand.

It was raining, but I could still see the sun setting behind the
clouds.  I’d been carrying around a wrinkled, wet book for almost an hour now.  I brought it home with me and dried it out.  Until now, it sat on my desk as a reminder to get out and breathe once in a while, to invest myself in the unknown, and like this book, to exist on my own terms without explanation.