Semester's End
May 05, 2003 8:45 a.m.
We stumble into the building at 3am, groggy under the heaviness of late-night fog. The icy dew of the soft grass leaves its lingering touch on my toes as I silently walk through the empty halls. The quiet is disconcerting.As I open my door, I am accosted by the path of desctruction left by the hurricane of finals week. Books, clothing, papers, and garbage blanket every flat surface of the room, disguising it's secret identity as a refuge from insanity.
Slowly, I begin to unearth my bed, knowing in the dark recesses of my mind that sleep is a futile wish and work must come first tonight. My desk looms with unfinished work as my bed beckons to me, calling me to it's comfort and warmth. After hours of feverishly paced scribbling, my cramped hand aches for relief and my eyes glaze over with the thought of one more final.
The room echoes as I drop my pen, the stark white walls scream with institutional bleakness as I struggle to pack one more box. In the desk drawer, the stolen beakers sit as a testament to failed attempts of late night debauchery just as the calculator laments my failed attempts at scholarly pursuits.
After so long, this room feels truly empty for the first time. After 50 weeks, I feel as if I am lost in the transition, with only a trunkload of dirty laundry to show for it all.
