Random writing.
The bell of her alarm goes off at seven every morning. Rather than being the vaguely obnoxious welcome to a new day of a new life it once was, for some time now it had been yet another reminder of yet another day in her six week old new life. To spite the day, she hits the snooze button at least twice; rolling over and sinking further into the sheets and warm down comforter that cover her bed. Usually, she is dreaming about him, and isn't ready to say goodbye yet. Those last few moments before sleep ends are the only time they have together, and she doesn't want to waste them on eighteen extra minutes of morning prep time.
Some days, like today, she ignores her alarm entirely, and allows herself to become enveloped by the lingering smell left on her one item of his clothing. She imagines, for just a little while, that she's not really gone, and that he's really just gotten out of bed or gone to get some coffee. Then the jarring sound of her alarm and the sun shining through her black-out blinds (That don't actually black out much of anything in the morning) force her to face reality: he is not here, she is still gone, and it's still October. So she rolls out of bed, throwing aside her covers and gently laying her dreams down under her pillow for later that night.
Most days she showers, though depending on how late or lazy she is, sometimes she'll just put her hair up and try to appear presentable. The morning ritual is nothing exciting: brush teeth, wash face, put on some lotion, add makeup, pretend to rein in crazy hair, maybe add some jewelry, get dressed, check e-mail, water plant, pack school bag, grab coffee and croissant, walk to class. Most days she eats alone on the way to class, but there are still those days where her friend bangs on her door and forces her to be social, which is probably a good thing.
Classes are largely uneventful. Occasionally she'll make a contribution, but generally she sits as the quiet observer of those around her. The walks between classes and from campus to her dorm are, at times, the best part of her day. Life seems so vibrant, and so simultaneously dulled and blurred that it intrigues her, paradox and all. The leaves begin to turn, children and parents walk to ballet, couples guide each other through the city turmoil, a bum sits on the corner begging for change, coffee shop life ebbs and flows, buses and bikers rush past. These days, swirls of wind stir up leaves and trash, reminding her of the biting chill in the air and the deceptive warmth of the sun. Slowly, the earth is preparing itself for hibernation as she watches the days pass from her window above the city.
Evenings are spent trying to focus on work: reading after reading seems to slide by under her vision; retention at a minimum. Even the breaks in the routine have become routine themselves: the weekly shows she watches with her friends are now little more than a blip in the radar. She never sleeps at a decent hour, choosing instead to talk to him, to read, or to catch up with people from home.
Then again, every day, the routine begins again. Despite its sameness, something about the rhythm makes the days seem shorter, and time seem to move faster. The close of every day adds another X to her wall, and brings her twenty four hours closer to the day she will disembark in PDX, and finally be home again.
The weekends are a perfect respite from the mundane and times where she allows herself to see the people she is surrounded by as ghosts of her former life. She finds comfort here, in fitting in and feeling at home; in finding people with ambitions and interests and desires akin to her own. They don't need alcohol or a party (social lubricants) to have fun, but rather they enjoy each others company.
This is not to say that she does not miss her friends who were a part of her life and her identity for so long. Or that he is not constantly in the back of her mind. She keeps him tucked away there so that when she is lonely, he is there to be a comfort, or when she needs to remember to tell him a funny joke or experience, his memory will remind her. But there is not room for constant sadness in this new life. There is only room for love, for acceptance, for patience, and for hope. And these are the things that she carries with her each day, as beacons against the loneliness, the fear, and the doubt.
Some days, like today, she ignores her alarm entirely, and allows herself to become enveloped by the lingering smell left on her one item of his clothing. She imagines, for just a little while, that she's not really gone, and that he's really just gotten out of bed or gone to get some coffee. Then the jarring sound of her alarm and the sun shining through her black-out blinds (That don't actually black out much of anything in the morning) force her to face reality: he is not here, she is still gone, and it's still October. So she rolls out of bed, throwing aside her covers and gently laying her dreams down under her pillow for later that night.
Most days she showers, though depending on how late or lazy she is, sometimes she'll just put her hair up and try to appear presentable. The morning ritual is nothing exciting: brush teeth, wash face, put on some lotion, add makeup, pretend to rein in crazy hair, maybe add some jewelry, get dressed, check e-mail, water plant, pack school bag, grab coffee and croissant, walk to class. Most days she eats alone on the way to class, but there are still those days where her friend bangs on her door and forces her to be social, which is probably a good thing.
Classes are largely uneventful. Occasionally she'll make a contribution, but generally she sits as the quiet observer of those around her. The walks between classes and from campus to her dorm are, at times, the best part of her day. Life seems so vibrant, and so simultaneously dulled and blurred that it intrigues her, paradox and all. The leaves begin to turn, children and parents walk to ballet, couples guide each other through the city turmoil, a bum sits on the corner begging for change, coffee shop life ebbs and flows, buses and bikers rush past. These days, swirls of wind stir up leaves and trash, reminding her of the biting chill in the air and the deceptive warmth of the sun. Slowly, the earth is preparing itself for hibernation as she watches the days pass from her window above the city.
Evenings are spent trying to focus on work: reading after reading seems to slide by under her vision; retention at a minimum. Even the breaks in the routine have become routine themselves: the weekly shows she watches with her friends are now little more than a blip in the radar. She never sleeps at a decent hour, choosing instead to talk to him, to read, or to catch up with people from home.
Then again, every day, the routine begins again. Despite its sameness, something about the rhythm makes the days seem shorter, and time seem to move faster. The close of every day adds another X to her wall, and brings her twenty four hours closer to the day she will disembark in PDX, and finally be home again.
The weekends are a perfect respite from the mundane and times where she allows herself to see the people she is surrounded by as ghosts of her former life. She finds comfort here, in fitting in and feeling at home; in finding people with ambitions and interests and desires akin to her own. They don't need alcohol or a party (social lubricants) to have fun, but rather they enjoy each others company.
This is not to say that she does not miss her friends who were a part of her life and her identity for so long. Or that he is not constantly in the back of her mind. She keeps him tucked away there so that when she is lonely, he is there to be a comfort, or when she needs to remember to tell him a funny joke or experience, his memory will remind her. But there is not room for constant sadness in this new life. There is only room for love, for acceptance, for patience, and for hope. And these are the things that she carries with her each day, as beacons against the loneliness, the fear, and the doubt.