new semesters

Sure, it's starting again and I'm freaking out a little, but not as much as these 17-year-olds who finally get their shot at WritersParis.

I talk about WritersParis as if it's not in the room with me.

WritersParis is bigger than me.

Every semester it gets bigger. With every blog post it gets bigger. Every pen name. Every intro that tries to be different, but not too different. Every photo, every music playlist, every comment.

I keep thinking it's going to get old. But it doesn't. It hasn't. It won't.

It's as good now as it ever was.

I'm even feeling love for the tourists. The ones who aren't reading this right now, the ones who finish their journal pages before I start the music. The ones who stay home from class because everything can be found on the blog. The ones with the hall pass right now, doing nothing. I want to give them their English credit.

Maybe I'm just feeling too much love these days. Maybe I've let this whole WritersParis thing go to my head, and like God: I love all my children. Even the ones who don't know how to show it.

These new semesters are like baptisms and we're all born again right now. And there's something divine about that.