I’ve not so secretly come to terms with the idea of becoming a writer.
On a Friday evening any number of individuals might pass by the crumbling stone benches. What was once a grandiose entry way into the Back Bay Fens now serves only as a convergence point for Bostonians from all walks of life. The fountains of the Johnson Gates have long since dried up, but the flow of passers-by presses on. Students from Northeastern, Berklee, and the Boston Conservatory mingle shamelessly at the intersection of Hemenway and Westland, smoking cigarettes likely purchased from loan money or trust funds, as native Bostonians pass on towards their rented housing after grueling days at minimum wage. I can’t help but wonder if they harbor a level of disdain for the privileged youth who so haphazardly pass the time.