My patio. Oh, my patio. My beautiful, beautiful patio.
It was the patio in which I wanted to drink wine and read Sylvia Plath. It was the patio in which I did not actually drink wine and read Sylvia Plath. Sylvia Plath, from what I realize within the first couple of poems that I have read, is not reading for the patio. The patio is a space of serenity while Sylvia Plath is a space of turbulence. Sylvia Plath and my patio do not go together. But it is still my patio regardless of whether I read Sylvia Plath while drinking wine on my patio.
Throughout this semester, I learned to cook foods, which I ate on my patio:
I’m going to miss my patio. The patio in which I drank tea and ate food and conversed with my roommate. I’m going to miss the other patios in my life, those aspects of my lifestyle that will no longer be a part of my lifestyle given a transition in environment. In one week, I will no longer have a patio. Gone is the space where tea and food and conversations thrive. Gone is the view over the London suburbs with children playing hide-and-seek below. Gone are the days where I could hear the boisterous laughter of a gaggle of chads in the adjacent patio drinking beer in business casual.
This is my patio. My beautiful patio. It is a patio that I have rented through my tenure at 489 Finchley Road, but it is my patio. It is the patio that I made an absurd pact to eat one Sainsbury’s digestives on the 17th of each month for the next year. It was the stupidest agreement that I had ever made in my life, where I assume responsibility in the absence of incentive. I claim ownership over this patio in my head. It belongs to others, but it also belongs to me, and as long as I continue to give it existence in my head, it will continue to be my patio.
But, sooner or later, I will no longer be able to give it the thought it deserves any longer. It would no longer be a patio, and I will no longer claim ownership over this patio. It would return to the space where it had been in the past, an unoccupied part of the world that has one less individual hwo has laid claim to it. My patio, oh my patio! I’m going to miss my patio. How many other patios have I forgotten in my life. This patio. This other patio. That patio. I lose patios. I gain patios. Somewhere along the line, the patio will lose meaning in my life.
Is that just life? One patio to the next patio to the next patio?