Whoo! 2 AM in the morning, and I’m still up and about.
(I am certain that upon looking over the archives to the time I was doing that research essay on Hamlet last semester, one will find a similarly inane post made post-midnight. If not two.)
One more week till it’s finally all over, baby. Then a few weeks hanging around Sydney, dealing with some unfinished business, before this chapter closes and people disappear yet again and I find myself elsewhere, wondering if all of this had ever happened.
Anyway, PLENTY of time to angst about that afterwards, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’m just trying to have fun with the little time I have, trying not to think so much what’s coming after (or the lack of plan for one thereof), and shall I say that time slowed down for me and gave me a break? Wish I could. Time gleefully went its quick, merry way as usual, and I suspect that it went past me ever quicker this time, just out of spite. But you can’t reason with human abstractions, just like you really can’t wrestle down that tough old vulture called Life long enough whisper to its ear what you want. Beside, that bird never listens to anyone anyway, so there’s a non-issue.
I’ll just tell you what it’s like in College at 2 AM in the morning.
It’s chilly. It’s cold to be out in your pajamas in the hallway, voices coming from the room across yours, the white letters spelling EXIT turned off. It’s dark, because everyone’s door is shut and there’s not even a slant of light coming out below the doors that would otherwise give you the impression that there’s a person with a beating heart behind these walls that cover so little and cover so much, but then that’s how we like our privacy, don’t we – we like being given an illusion of it, but not so much, lest we feel alone in the world. And yet there still are people with beating hearts behind these doors, every single one of them a story that would span volumes, affecting every person they meet, and those people spanning volumes of their own, that meeting always a potential plot twist in their life. But when the doors are shut and locked, it is as if they are not there, these people with blood rushing to their brains, where dreams are spuming out in clouds of detail, and there’s so much life and none at the same time, and there’s the power of walls, as artificial and arbitrary as they may be like Time, like everything we make ourselves.
(I’ve always been rather partial to walls, though; I practically grew up with so much of them around me.)
It’s odd, because after midnight, there is that something that tells you that only you have the right to be still awake.