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My feet hang limp off the edge of my bunk, off the white, padded mattress I've grown to love in the six months I've been here. An 11x12 room, and it doesn't seem small to me anymore. The creamy cinder block define the seemingly tight, enclosed space, packed like storage bins in a facility called a university dormitory. Screeching laughter seeps through the paper thin walls, and muffled footsteps shuffle above my head. Strangers run past my window, and it's dark and it's 22 minutes after midnight, but they're going somewhere; they're going to have some fun. And my ankles suffer from the weight of my wide-set feet, toenails painted in sparkling cherry polish and veins a prominent blue from the pressure. The numbness eating away at my heals slowly curses through my shins, to my lower back, through my crouched neck, and spilling into my fingertips. I can hear everything, all the music and the laughter and the talking; the voices and the footsteps and the shouting; but all I really hear is silence, an upsetting sound of nothingness.
Confined, I know why: I need people. I need their touch, their affection, their encouragement and reassurance. I need their character, I need to feel I'm not being lost within the masses, pushed aside by the strong, moving hands of the theoretical clock. Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines--that's all I have to meet now, instead of people. Where are they again? Oh, yes, they know something I don't, something that I've puzzled over for 19 years; they're outside, under the vibrant, cream-colored ribbons of the moon; they're over there, drinking with their friends and creating memories; they're right there! pinky promising their lovers they'll love them forever. Where am I? Oh, I'm right here, speaking to imaginary people that reside in a never-ending, expanding digital realm; I'm right here, making pinky promises to my personal computing unit, saying this is all I need when I've no one else, when I'm sitting here letting my feet dangle off the edge of my bunk; when everyone is outside dancing under the moon; when I've got deadlines to meet, instead of my friends who are gleefully drinking away the rest of the year.
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It burns, my laptop burns. It rests on my lap, heavily, the comforter melting from the heat of the machine. My contacts, they're dry, they're drying to my eyes. And my fingers are falling asleep, dragging along the black keys and smooth plastic. Rhythm, rhythmic pounding, droning in the softness below my tired brows. It's almost morning, I should just wait for the sunrise. Days now are like this, and I'm becoming more like a day that never ends; it's just a period of hours that repeats, repeats, repeats, repeats... Music drones from the small speakers from beneath my palms, and my roommate snores and coughs and shifts in bed. I'm uneasy and apathetic. I relax. Patience does not exist. I'm not patient, I've just forgotten that time does not return. My butt's numb. My back hurts from hunching over. I need to remove that ugly tomatoe-color nailpolish from my toes. So this is what they mean by procrastination; and sleep deprivation; and college; and real life; I mean, taxes, careers, family, adulthood, responsibility; the American way to live.
My head is getting dizzy. The lights burn my eyes, the heat burns the room. And it's rising, rising... Where am I again? Oh yes, I'm at college, and I've got work to do. I'm doing it, I think.
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Home is so far away. I never thought of home until a couple of days ago. The truth is, I wanted to forget the pains I experienced when I was with my "friends"--I wanted to start new at this new college of mine. I wanted them to like me so bad. A couple of days ago I realized I wasn't one of them; I didn't fit in or maybe, they didn't fit into my strange world. I locked myself up and refused to let myself go; I chained my words and let them think I was some quiet and timid girl who likes nothing but to observe. They eventually broke themselves off, casting me into the tag-along corner where I could still hear them talk about their future plans to further their best friend relationship. I wasn't part of it. I need to write this down now, because my eyes are burning and eager to cry. This reminds me of high school again, but this time if you don't make it, you're left behind for good. I'm just waiting for someone to tell me that it's not my fault, that I just need to find the right niche and fit in... I'm just hoping that that's what is happening.
I remember it clearly: we're walking down the street, they're arm-linked to each other. I comment about the weather, and how it's a shitty cloudy weather. No, it's perfect, she says. I have S.A.D., I say. In my head the words "that's just an excuse" scream incessantly. I have S.A.D., and yesterday, I wasn't in the mood and that's why I wasn't talking. That's sad, they respond. We continue walking and the topic is lost when they beging reminiscing of their good times.
It doesn't help that I use this online blogging for therapy. A girl down the hall just walked into my room, asking for my roommate and "them." Sorry, they went out to party and I'm here, left alone, doing homework when I could be out having fun. Needless to say, I did reject her invitation to go out and party with them, but that was because I knew it was forced--she probably didn't even care if I came. I was probably a burden. The girl says, "Oh, I miss them so much. Okay, thanks, bye." She leaves the room quietly, without much thought to me. What am I to them? I'm a burden; I am some tag-along who doesn't have a personality, or a life.
I am of no importance.
No one knows I feel this way. I wonder if they can tell. No, probably not. I have no one to talk to, and I miss home now more than ever. Back there, I know there are some people who accept my silence and who actually want to be around my company. But to be around those old friends, does that define who I am? A recluse? A socially awkward girl who can't integrate with society? Can I move on from the past? Do my expectations restrict me from moving on?
I can never keep friends. I'm like a fad in the commerical market--quick on coming and as fast on leaving. I'll never be in anyone's friendship circle for too long, and if so, I'm just there to be there.
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| March twenty-first, and Spring has delayed her return. Winter offers no mercy, and her winds blow swiftly, biting my exposed, pale body. My black coat I wear to protect myself from this hangs stiffly in place, offering no such warmth or shield. The sun still lingers among the clouds as the dark crawls past the day, creeping slowly over the cold, blue skies. Slowly slipping into sleep, the sun moves quicker than the hands on my wrists that turn at snail-like pace. Half a day, three hours, fifty-two seconds-- I find myself counting the seconds down to the remains of the days, empty days. Eighty-six-thousand and four-hundred seconds seem to drag on longer now that we expect so much more when it is not promised until later. Now, I hear it! Distant laughters from the frozen fields ricochet off the caverns in my head, and my ears painfully receive the heavy vibrations. I feel myself emotionless and senseless, yet my mouth curves ever so slightly downwards? I leave my head aimed forward, not wanting to see what I've missed out on, or what seems to be what I cannot, do not want to see. Closer to my car, my mind incessantly floods with past desires to relive memories, to be able to create ones that I can keep when I leave this place. But no one's around, and the escaping passion, the eagerness to be impulsive and to take advantage of time's lethargic pace, fall unheard upon the icy ground. The coldness enfolds me, and the silence is bitterly accepted. I get in my car. It's warm and muggy from the sun. My black coat that could not protect me from the wind now itches my skin, making me sweat. I'm uncomfortable. I roll down the windows eagerly--the cold cools my body, and the blowing winds in my hair tells me stories of the summer. Nostalgia. Stepping on the accelerator I now feel the rush of the the winter, and it pierces my face. Too cold. Yet, with the windows up the heat is too severe, and with the windows left open, my head suffers an ache. I can't seem to find the right balance... between hot and cold? But of other things!--the perfect balance of time, of season, of memories, of life. Things now are too quick, or too slow; too dull or too exhausting; too light or too robust. Five months, one-hundred and fifty days, five-hundred and forty-thousand seconds. Time winds slowly when we expect things that aren't promised until later. I want to slide through the empty spaces of time, taking advantage of what's given. But my passions, my desires and impulses dance off into the disappearing March winds. The coldness enfolds me, and the silence is bitterly accepted. | | |
| They're two beautiful girls. I can hear their quick footsteps resound in the warm hallway, the soft words spoken subdued by the thick air. One of the girl's long hair fiercely swings to and from the crown of her head. Their mouths lose control; the empty words escape, shooting into the eager air. The girls' lives escape, too, taking a careless dive into the other girl's ear, and tragically plummeting to the ground. But they're happy, and all cares and responsibilities seem to disappear. They're two beautiful children, again. Time is running out. The floor catches the hurried pace of their feet, and the air--getting thicker now--bites into their nervous laughter. "Come on!" one screams. The girl flings her long hair from her face, and takes a brisk lunge towards the clock, towards the darkness. She takes another lunge closer, then another and some more. Her arms dance above her crown of hair. She is laughing. The dense air hugs her laughter but silences the other girl's cry. The girl runs ahead, running, running, running past time, and she's not looking back. Her feet carry away into the darkness and her sharp figure is lost; the shadow of her existence slips into the past. "Come back, please!" the friend begs. But the way is empty now. The fallen girl's body lies limply on the cold floor. The damp air crawls along the walls, and the ceiling rains down. I step away from the side, and walk towards the girl. The rustle of my feet make way into her consciousness. Her head lifts and her teary eyes fall upon mine. She brings her hand from underneath the weight and reaches out to me as I approach her. "Please," she cries, "I don't want to forget." "But you must," I welcome her hand into mine. It's soft and fragile, and vulnerable. I cup my palms around her hand, shielding it from the rain. I pull swiftly, and her body unravels into the air. From the near distance the clock alarm peals and rolls through the falling memories. "No longer may we linger but here. Remember to let go," Her eyes gaze into mine, knowing. Then the rain ceased to fall, and the ceiling and surrounding walls fell into the calling darkness, into the ringing of the clock. I release myself and slip back into her blindness. The girl stands alone in a white, unfamiliar world. It's quiet and pleasant, and the gentle winds blow through her, washing away the remnants of the past. | | |
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