[POI: a “deep existential moment,” as a friend put it, I had walking home from practicing in the early hours of the morning this past Wednesday]
This week, I felt disoriented walking the same paths, holding the same doors, complaining about the same nuisances–here, that includes a bureaucracy “to rival the Ottoman Empire’s” (according to my History of the Modern Middle East professor), a new credit cap that unleashes a different head of the same stress hydra, and inconveniently-located women’s restrooms (vestiges of the university’s more-sexist-than-today years). I felt the same strangeness answering the twenty-seventh question of “are you ready for senior year?” “does it feel different?” “are you…on the cusp of change?” It’s remarkable how, with a simple wring of time, everything you’ve known for three years somehow leans a different hue, is outlined another way.
And yes, I do feel different, but a comfortable different. Like things have fallen into place, the way milk, poured in languid swirls, fills the cup’s edges until the coffee emerges a spritely hazelnut color. Some constants will always remain so–rapidly-turning leaves landing with small thuds on College Walk; late nights on Low banisters, legs dangling off the ledge; early mornings gathering myself for the day ahead, accompanied by 0% plain Fage. It would be foolish to think that senior year will somehow be easier now that internships take up as much time as classes do, now that E.C. parties have reached a new zenith of affectionately disgusting.