5.9.18
I have three mini-essays to write, but I'm writing this, instead, because it is the lonely hour and right now, I need to voice my thoughts more than I need to make assertions about 18th-century British literature.
It's my second to last night here, yet you wouldn't know it by looking at my room. Everything is still in its place, there are no boxes packed up, nothing put away, there is no indication that in 39 or so hours, I will be moving out of this shoebox dorm forever, never to see the inside of room #102 ever again.
I'll never come back on this floor of this building and stick my key in the door (or just open the door because we leave it unlocked) and welcome myself home. This bed will never be my bed again, the windowsill will never again double as my bookshelf, my pictures and artwork will never grace the walls again. Once I surrender my key, that's it, and I'm leaving, and I can never call this place my temporary home ever again.
I know I'll be back in late August, to a different building, a new room that I've chosen, to be attached to. I don't know why I get so attached to places, but I do. But maybe part of it is because this year was the experience I didn't get to choose and perhaps that's what made it so special.
I didn't choose to be on this floor, with these girls, with this roommate. It happened by happenstance and if anything were the tiniest bit shifted, nothing would be the same. This is the last time I could call these people my floormates, probably the last time I'll know everyone on my floor by name. We'll see each other around campus now, and maybe mucker up a wave, or whisper a hello. But that is all - the common bond we all had, living here on this floor, will be no more.
The floor itself holds too many memories - there were late nights curled up to the handicap stall toilet, and early mornings running to the bathroom to keep the contents of last night from spilling out all over the carpet; there were movie nights hosted in various rooms, in the infant stages where we all loved each other; there were candy canes and Hershey's kisses left on everyone's door frames during the holidays, or little love notes left at random; there was all of this and so much more.
I am a victim of nostalgia, always and forever will be. I'm sure this time, next year, I'll be feeling the same - wishing for something back before it has even slipped through my fingertips.
It's my second to last night here, yet you wouldn't know it by looking at my room. Everything is still in its place, there are no boxes packed up, nothing put away, there is no indication that in 39 or so hours, I will be moving out of this shoebox dorm forever, never to see the inside of room #102 ever again.
I'll never come back on this floor of this building and stick my key in the door (or just open the door because we leave it unlocked) and welcome myself home. This bed will never be my bed again, the windowsill will never again double as my bookshelf, my pictures and artwork will never grace the walls again. Once I surrender my key, that's it, and I'm leaving, and I can never call this place my temporary home ever again.
I know I'll be back in late August, to a different building, a new room that I've chosen, to be attached to. I don't know why I get so attached to places, but I do. But maybe part of it is because this year was the experience I didn't get to choose and perhaps that's what made it so special.
I didn't choose to be on this floor, with these girls, with this roommate. It happened by happenstance and if anything were the tiniest bit shifted, nothing would be the same. This is the last time I could call these people my floormates, probably the last time I'll know everyone on my floor by name. We'll see each other around campus now, and maybe mucker up a wave, or whisper a hello. But that is all - the common bond we all had, living here on this floor, will be no more.
The floor itself holds too many memories - there were late nights curled up to the handicap stall toilet, and early mornings running to the bathroom to keep the contents of last night from spilling out all over the carpet; there were movie nights hosted in various rooms, in the infant stages where we all loved each other; there were candy canes and Hershey's kisses left on everyone's door frames during the holidays, or little love notes left at random; there was all of this and so much more.
I am a victim of nostalgia, always and forever will be. I'm sure this time, next year, I'll be feeling the same - wishing for something back before it has even slipped through my fingertips.
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