The sun is fading through the yellow dusty panes. 3:30 in the afternoon and we rub the sleep from our eyes and stare into blank text books. We travel hallways, bare feet and empty conversation. Blue eyes brown eyes green eyes black eyes, they all look right through you. A cheery coke dangles precariously off the edge of the counter and spills into the heater. The room will smell like burning cherries for years. A pile of books stacked higher than the window fan suffocates us in our sleep, impedes the view of the trees and trees and trees and miles and miles and miles of nothingness and everything, of academia and forest, of higher learning and the places we came from. Basketball shorts strewn across the floor, dvds out of their boxes, out of the alphabetical by genre order they were placed in in September. Candy wrappers and instrument cases. A lonely lacrosse stick that won't see the outside world until the ground is no longer hard with frost. Grey sneakers and brown sneakers and white sneakers, red flip flops and black flip flops and dirty flip flops and worn out flip flops.
I can see the world fading with the setting sun, the trees become shadows and the world looks dark and empty, and suddenly there is only me, and there is only my dorm room, filled with flip flops and instruments and lacrosse sticks and books.
Sometimes I think my world begins and ends from the window sill to the doorway, and then the sun rises and then I step outside and I am amazed. Always amazed.
Today has been a good day.
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