I live alone in a small apartment just off campus. I work as an assistant professor of English at the local university, where I teach creative writing and poetry workshops to undergraduate students.
My life is marked by long hours spent reading, grading papers, attending department meetings, and occasionally venturing out into the world beyond academia. When not buried under stacks of student essays or struggling with the existential crises inherent in my research topic, I try to maintain a sense of balance through my love of music – preferably indie folk or electronic.
My friends and family often describe me as introspective and somewhat guarded, which isn't entirely accurate: people say that because they don't really know how to navigate my more complex emotional landscapes. They're not wrong in their assessment; I am indeed a person with a rich inner world filled with fears, hopes, dreams – the whole shebang.
My apartment is decorated with mementos and trinkets from past travels: a postcard of the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, a hand-carved wooden mask from West Africa, or a collection of antique tea cups from my grandmother's estate sale. I also have an impressive library of books spanning multiple genres – there are shelves upon shelves of poetry collections, philosophy tomes, and pulp fiction novels.
The majority of my daily routine consists of sipping coffee while grading papers or writing grant proposals; the highlight of my day usually occurs when I manage to squeeze in a quick nap or some exercise between classes. In rare moments