I’m listening to a hypnotic jazz set in a gorgeous art deco bar in Greenwich Village. Baldwin piano, double bass, drumset. My date is a perfectly kind, handsome and respectable NYU student. He pulls out my chair. We’re sharing a bottle of Pinot Grigio. All is tranquil and joyous, until my mind drifts to him, whom I had wished to leave behind between palm trees and lifeguard posts. The summer after your first year can offer many things: barista shifts for financial stability, a backpacking trip through Europe or maybe plain and simple relaxation. Post-first-year summers usually provide some sort of wellness, enrichment or mental clarity that prepares students for another year of fervent learning.
In Zena World, however, nothing ever functions quite so sequentially. For instance, the most magical summer of my life also happened to be the most confusing. At the very time when I felt the most beautiful, I developed a crippling sense of insecurity. Despite being the oldest I had ever been, I felt juvenile, even compared to those merely months older than myself. Like I said, confusing.
Most confounding of all was developing feelings for someone emotionally unavailable, in a foreign city that I knew we’d share for a fleeting time. As such, I forbade myself from even imagining him as a subject of my desire. I have always been this way: finding any way to avoid losing control, especially to something as unreliable as a human, male, twenty-something.
Naturally, the former me was threatened by this change. I had someone I desired who I knew I couldn’t control. Moreover, this particular person enjoyed toying with my nerves, which served only to intensify with my surrender. Everything was at risk, which, I quickly realized, made everything exciting.
As the summer came to an end, my psyche held more questions than answers. I faced the consequences of disobeying rules crafted for self-protection. My mind became an anxious microcosm of him. It only worsened when I returned to my home, to my parents and to the sickening banality of his absence.
As a final attempt to intentionally progress into this sophomore fall with this summer’s lessons — and not delusions — I offer this poem: a testament to my aching, but momentary state of mental captivity.
As “He Will Sink” implies, this summer I found myself in quite the predicament (my use of the past tense is strategic). Though I had a surplus of exciting and enriching experiences, I was stuck. I’d feel less embarrassed if this impasse was the result of something akin to quicksand or a whirlpool. Unfortunately, it was a member of the male species.
Being an anal, type A person, as if it isn’t obvious — the circumstance was an immensely frustrating one. Why does someone like him have such power over my thoughts? How can such a shallow situationship uproot my life in this way?
Throughout the summer, I would’ve told you that journaling helped immensely. Each day, I would chronicle each minor advancement and demotion. I would detail our connection, my friendships, my other liaisons, my cultural experiences, pouring out my thoughts and feelings in four to 10 pages.
“That’s great, I always knew you were a writer!” My mother had said. But was it great? In hindsight, it merely made things worse: scattering my summer throughout hundreds of frantic pages. Maybe I would’ve focused my efforts in the real world, if I didn’t have a safe haven for delusions, dreams and nightmares alike. Each day, I was intensely replaying, reimagining every moment, living in intense regret of every perceived misstep or missed opportunity. It certainly did not provide any semblance of mental clarity. Although knowing this, I’d still argue it successfully offered mental awareness.
Aside from my frankly brilliant introspection, what the subject of “He Will Sink” did do was remind me that I have the capability to feel deeply. I believe the unsaid can be a million times more harmful than the said. Though I hope his image suffocates in the abyssal, I am glad to know I have, in a twisted way, grown. It all feels too backwards to have infantile fixations, as I once placed it, be the catalyst for my maturity. Today, I say: sometimes reversion, regression, returning in all of its psychosocial terms, is the only way to advance.
So, I hope you can support me in this final moment of regression. This reflection marks the last dawn of his tyranny. Coming from TSL’s opinions desk, I am of the qualified opinion that he will, in fact, sink, and henceforth I shall solely write about tasteful, eccentric matters.
Zena Almeida-Warwin PO ’28 is from Brooklyn, New York. Her summer of dreams — and nightmares — took place amidst the gorgeous city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He, I mean it … was a sight for sore eyes.