I am sitting downstairs in the Union, in our colony, no other human being in sight, 4:46 AM, having just finished my final assignment of my undergraduate career -- a creative paper about the team and the school that I love so dearly -- and "Where the Streets Have No Name" has just begun to play. It seems incredibly appropriate on many levels.
"We're being blown by the wind, trampled in dust... I'll show you a place high on a desert plain where the streets have no name..."
There really are no names for these streets, no one name for this place. So many names.
I think one thing I have appreciated the most about college -- really about most of my larger life experiences -- is the ability to be still and silent in a place, to be alone, and to feel recognized within a physical space. I think that my tendencies toward nostalgia and sentimentality increase this feeling in me, but I will miss it immensely in this place and these spaces that have known me differently than other people know me. There's a lot that I don't say out loud -- some of it I write down, but even then it's not often widely read -- and in these moments of being alone, of quiet (except for my playlist, song memories, heart memories) it permeates my surroundings. I know that something about this space is going to change for me (not that I want to rush things, but can I just fall off the damn cliff? This anticipation thing is killing me), but I hope and ache for the possibility that even when I come back, it will still welcome me and meet me wherever I am.
But for now --
Jeans, new black and white Davidson tshirt, green bracelet and green necklace, tevas, limp tired hair, creaking neck, tickled throat, chapped lips, knees scrunched up on the table, cookies/tea/calendar/paper draft spread out in front of me, air conditioning whirring. Stunned brain, stumbling heart.
Me, 22, college.
"And when I go there I go there with you... it's all I can do."