Spring quarter often brings long days and late nights holed up with leftovers and hot water in homes outside home, at the tip of a mundane hill.
Many nights–ones that contain spending upwards of seven hours in a glorified closet on the farthest outskirts of campus–send me clattering down the hill on a rental bike in avoidance of a midnight walk under broken street lamps, fluorescent metal frame creaking on cement and cobblestone. The new building’s lights are still on, flooding the walkway’s outlined squares with butter yellow. Whisk past wooden structures–student center, bookstore, branches squealing in protest of slight wind. This courtyard’s lawn is bigger than students left it this morning. Cross a lake–no, puddle–and startle at an awoken sprinkler.
Park and chuckle at the snail-trail. This is my last quarter living on campus.
My shoes squeak like the trees as I climb, three flights but five floors, I find the patch of my sweater that suffered the sprinkler’s attack. I rode down the hill in silence tonight, sparing my headphones yet another untangling in favor of hearing the eucalyptus’s complaints.
Whistling of a tea kettle. My throat returns to pollen-induced itching. I am starting to remember why I write, a lesson I must repeatedly learn, as I occasionally allow it to escape.
some things i hope to write about soon: meeting other people in college radio, tackling long-term projects, titles + responsibilities that come with them, solo road trips, giving up versus making choices, expectation disconnects, breaking into academia, & painting on old clothes