Thursday, and I'm tired of counting days
It's raining. Slightly misting, dark clouds reaching down into the Eugene hills, the grey stands of Hayward Field matching the hue in the sky. The O sticker on my window perfectly frames four trees, each with various heights. The sky is as heavy and fogged as my mind. It is moments like this where I wonder why the weather always seems to reflect my mood when I could use, need anything to the contrary.
I have one week left in this place. One week left of Carson dinners, of running across the hall to use someone's printer, of drunken neighbors screaming at 3 am, of anxious calls in the laundry room. One week left of my freshman year of college.
I need the sea. I need my hands dusted with flour. But at the same time, I know that when I return to this place, nothing will be the same.
I feel so lost.
I have one week left in this place. One week left of Carson dinners, of running across the hall to use someone's printer, of drunken neighbors screaming at 3 am, of anxious calls in the laundry room. One week left of my freshman year of college.
I need the sea. I need my hands dusted with flour. But at the same time, I know that when I return to this place, nothing will be the same.
I feel so lost.