The first thing you have to remember is that nothing is impervious to change. The second thing you have to remember is that if you move too much, you will knock something over and everyone will be mad.
As in low-risk architectural engineering, there are many ways to build an essay.
First, the Melville approach: notice everything.
The number of chairs, the number of blankets, the patches of light that filter through in the gaps between – like unfilled sections of a paint-by-numbers, like pieces of a memory, the heavy exhalations from your housemate’s favorite telenovela on the screen, “esta es la última vez,” the pressure of your fingertips on the keyboard, the uncomfortable angle of your neck, the temperature of the air, the color of the rug, the crumbs on the rug (why does no one sweep in this house?), the scent of coffee, the soft stillness. And the pillows – do not forget the pillows.
Second, the Darwin approach: origins.
I did not build this pillow fort. I could have, but I was busy trying to write this essay (the first draft, that is – the shitty one). Instead, I am taking advantage of someone else’s hard work, content in the knowledge that I will at least help take it down, that I will be the one to sweep. How many first drafts did Darwin go through before he settled? How far were the Galapagos, who built his ship, and did they – the crew, that is – ever miss home? Because I still do. The origin of my species is the dust of a valley 4 hours southeast, and it feels sometimes very far away. I have yet to determine where my evolution is leading me, but I’m quickly finding adaptation may not be my strongest card – and I’ve spent far more time on the voyage, in-between, than I ever have on land. Perhaps someone should have recorded that part.
Third, the Walden approach: speculate on the nature of life within your bubble of solitude.
A pillow fort is like a childhood mispronunciation (that is, a liberry, a toof) – it’s funny for a little while, but eventually you have to put everything back in its place. We, too, can hardly last forever. I could have introduced this piece with any number of profound titles: The Ephemerality of Character, The Importance of Subjective Freedom. But I already wrote a first draft for this, a philosophical deliberation on truth and memory, and it felt far too ambitious, too intense. The voice was too old, acting too much like it knew what it was doing, and it wasn’t mine. I have just turned 20 – perhaps other 20-year-olds can write like that, but not this one.
So here’s my question then: how do you know when your first draft is over? There are no page breaks for the phases of a life, no clever chapter titles (unless, of course, you’re writing a memoir). I can count only in years passed, but I am quite certain this Me will not make it to September. Somewhere in that exceedingly long essay, Thoreau wrote “only that day dawns to which we are awake,” but I prefer to sleep in, linger, hold on to the things I was once sure of because I’m not yet ready to not know. “Nadie sabe. Me entiendes?” I am evolving and devolving, writing myself more space. I am building pillow forts to speculate in, warm spaces with just enough room to turn around, breathe, until I get too big, until I have to put everything back in its place. I’m waiting on a page break.
Fourth, the It approach: write an anticlimactic ending.
Eventually, someone will need these chairs.