It’s seems to me that being in love would be nice.
Sure, I have a strongly slanted and naïve perception on the
whole matter because my love lust has been the outcome of meeting fictional
protagonist like Mr. Darcy, Michael Hosea, and Robbie Turner. Though, I must
say, Robbie Turner is my personal favorite. It’s the whole well-read, quiet
thoughtful type thing.
Anyway, I was attempting to go to bed, and I kept reliving
the whole day:
Late for class on the
account of Auburn’s dramatic C zone parking makeover, the 3 hours of statistics
(called “sadistic” by myself), the realization that my desired 4.0 may have to
be sacrificed on “sadistic’s” account, the hour of college politics at a campus
meeting, the need to join more committees when I’m already doing too much as it
is, wondering if the intrigue editor at The Plainsman is still laughing under
her breath at my nutrition article attempt, the yellow check engine light
coming on in my car as I’m leaving campus, and of course, the thought occurred
to me last night that after orientation at the clinic today, I’d be walking, not driving, the thirty five
minutes home in a cardigan and unforgiving humidity.
Previous to pillow thinking time, I had ordered Jimmie Johns
and tried to really lose myself in the chocolate chip cookie, but I only ate
half, and then I ran a mile listening to “angry songs” by Avril Lavigne in an
attempt to give myself an outlet. Not so successful.
I took a bath and read Atonement, and felt similar to Robbie
up to some point, and then he’d talk about getting married and having babies
with Cecilia, and he totally lost me. That is a comforting thought that I don’t
know yet.
It was time to escape from the no good, very bad, day. But
sleep didn’t come. It’s like the day was some hiccup stuck in my chest …lodged
there, and with it, the reoccuring thought of, "what am I doing here?" And turning on my side, I figured that being in love would be a nice
thing: to have a horrible day, for someone to witness it, and at the end, to pull
you in, their arm on your hip.
The world out there, you in here, in your love bubble.
Your world out there is just the motion you go through every
day to get here; the world in here is what really matters. The parking chaos,
the dying car, the pointless debates, that evil class, the cardigan and humidity…none
of that really matters, and with that hand on your hip, I wonder if it’s easier
to remember.
Feel safe, know your life was witnessed, and then close your
eyes and sleep.
