(no subject)
and i do not miss it
sitting in a darkened dorm room working and typing and wishing for so so so many other things.
sitting at mudd watching greg and michael and everyone else arguing over math problems and not feeling good anywhere
(no not even)
having to walk down those halls with all those closed doors. open doors music playing people laughing. trash cans full and laundry rooms always busy, lights on.
quiet moments of inexplicable lonliness and panic, wishing for my dog and my mom and ice available 24 hours a day. heaters that work, friends i could call and drive to see.
no, i would not trade any ben gibbard cure covers, but i could not ever go back to that place and who i was there. parking at the glass house and not feeling anything good enough to justify it.
sitting on the stairs at the grove watching keith murray consume all the oxygen in the place and feeling so utterly misplaced and not anything enough.
(chalk and speakers, dark nights and video games. there was much and it is preserved in books and letters and writings and that is all that can ever be done for it. music makers, writing in trees lit up from behind. dinners at frary and the orozco class, so many strange looks. library sales and hayden and not the school i really wanted and not the school i really had)
ringing ringing ringing off
sitting in a darkened dorm room working and typing and wishing for so so so many other things.
sitting at mudd watching greg and michael and everyone else arguing over math problems and not feeling good anywhere
(no not even)
having to walk down those halls with all those closed doors. open doors music playing people laughing. trash cans full and laundry rooms always busy, lights on.
quiet moments of inexplicable lonliness and panic, wishing for my dog and my mom and ice available 24 hours a day. heaters that work, friends i could call and drive to see.
no, i would not trade any ben gibbard cure covers, but i could not ever go back to that place and who i was there. parking at the glass house and not feeling anything good enough to justify it.
sitting on the stairs at the grove watching keith murray consume all the oxygen in the place and feeling so utterly misplaced and not anything enough.
(chalk and speakers, dark nights and video games. there was much and it is preserved in books and letters and writings and that is all that can ever be done for it. music makers, writing in trees lit up from behind. dinners at frary and the orozco class, so many strange looks. library sales and hayden and not the school i really wanted and not the school i really had)
ringing ringing ringing off