The boy who liked me is broadcasting for the last time. He plays music from the last four years, songs that have been most influential to him and his world. Songs that sound like college and New Orleans. Bard.
Village A, where people have tapestries on their ceilings. The back of Esopus, where dandelions grow white like the walls in the building.
And Rachel, you would fall, and turn the white walls red as strawberries in the summertime.
It is the end of my second year, the end of his fourth. From Connecticut to Maine to New York with Louisiana scattered throughout, it’s been a hell of a time traveling. It’s been a hell of time traveling. There are globes turning. There are belly dancers in the dining hall. There are musicals and friends, musicals by friends, musical friends. Cars fall by the wayside. My tires are Allman Brothers big, guitar solo round, freeway high. Turn left on right, no turn left on right, no, why did you make the right. I thought you were my friend. Please, don’t bring me back. Hold me by the arms and look me in the eyes before you put me back in this box, this asylum, this lockdown excuse for a campus.
I want to be free with you.
Maybe someday, I’ll run into you in the middle of the country, trying to hitch to the opposite coast.
I’m currently studying with my roommate. We’re inside of a fort that we made. A blue blanket hovers above us, held up by mattresses. We spread our books over the sleeping bag on the floor, and we’re listening to Spring Awakening.
We’re silent otherwise.
We’ve grown up. We aren’t singing. I hear the cast’s voices instead of ours. They sound like us, though.
All I want is to be scratching this down in my own handwriting in my little leather book. But we’re camping now. I’ll have no such luxuries.
It feels like being in high school. I see the drama studio, the office, the blue chair with arms like a mother. The linoleum, the intense heat and painful cold, the sporadic and unexplained beeping that we were all used to hearing. The red, familiar glow of digital numbers hanging on the clocks in darkened rooms.
I feel like this is a place for me to record the things I don’t write in my notebook. The sound of plastic tap dancing beneath frantic fingertips replaces the gentle smoothing of ink over paper accompanied by the bells on leather woven magenta spines. It’s a place for the words that are too long, or the ones I don’t want you to see when you peer over the edge of my pages. You don’t sit next to me on the Internet. The dots on my “i”s are the windows to my soul.