I decided to print out one of the thirty-page papers, due this afternoon, at the library and turn it in, as if that were what was bearing down on me. The library is amazing at 6:30 AM during the final week of school; you wander inside in a sickly daze and there is life, what a wonderful feeling, you’re not alone. Aggravated students connected in a mad dash to beat deadlines. And finding a good one-third of your classmates from one class there in a collective hysteria, trying to finish. It makes me wish I hadn’t already. It’s something ineffable and fun only in retrospect when the poisonous taste of energy drinks is far gone and you’re well-rested enough to forget the misery of a sleepless night. But it still means something, all that effort put toward a goal; a dream, maybe. Maybe ultimately. It could mean numberless things.
I’ve done everything. I’m finishing and I like what I see, the things that come from me; I am happy feeling like I can shoot the moon and be assured I‘ve found nothing but even more dreams to dream. The things that I can share with my friends who understand and give me things to think about in return. It sounds silly. I think I am happy like this. I am happy devoting myself wholeheartedly to this, there’s little more important than understanding, and it’s times like these that I could be happy. A weird, wistful feeling that makes me miss things before they’re gone. I’m dreading Wednesday night because most of my friends somehow ended up older, much older, and they’ll be graduating next semester, and I won’t see them at the end and then they’ll be gone. I’m sad that I wasn’t able to sleep because it means less time spent awake in the spaces where normal people are awake. But I could be the happiest person I know right now.
I’ve got to sleep so I can wake up for a final exam, but I’ll do well. Listen: I’m doing well. Even when it‘s difficult to find me. In these spaces you will not know and these words you cannot feel, I think I’m here.