Milky Way

It is impossible to ignore the weight of purpose here.

There are the expected staggerers limping from college town and the once in a while RA in drag. There are mosquitos, outright nerds, lost romantics, and bathroom stall hiders. The best badminton players - actually, the only badminton players - are men. Those people without real photos of themselves on Facebook turn out to be some of the most well-read scholars. The workout-holics stand chest out and only raise their arms a certain height. The workaholics are buried in Uris, completely in flow. That guy plays piano at RPCC every single night. That one gets high on biking, that one on proofs, that one on pussy. We all interact ceaselessly, under the quilt of Cornell.

I would be a fool to dismiss the inevitability of every occurence, so fresh and raw and meaningful. We run into that one Cru leader, but also that one, but also that one. The people who stay in conversation with us, who sit with us in silence for no spoken reason, seek a greater perhaps, a peace buried among us. The first time I ventured to have a spontaneous conversation, was with a classmate so forgettable that it might not have happened, except that by the next time we had lunch, we were talking about suicide, and purpose, and God. There aren't that many of us - I know because we've walked the entire plantations, Triphammer, college town, Commons, the main portion of Cayuga. Every one walks forward, granted, often with passion, but nevertheless with some motivation to progress. But no one looks upwards. No one watches God tear away the clouds and reveal his baffling universe.

The Milky Way is beautiful, of course. Shooting stars never lose their magic; sunsets maintain awesomeness. But that is not the point. The point is that the stars are full of conviction. They burn and blink and spiral as close and as far away as the soul next to me. They are flawless, unscathed by distraction, completely and utterly whole. And that is how they make us feel - full, and wildly in love.

I don't need anybody. No one needs any one. There isn't a single person in this world who can take away the poison in my meals, the fatigue in my legs and mind and heart. No one can tell me to leave my dorm and surround myself with better people than myself. The dorm room is claustrophobic. It makes monsters inside men, for everyone. Even the townhouses can induce unfathomable loneliness. Anything, even a walk into a suspicous smelling 7-11 is better than being so restricted. So I'm trying, really, awfully hard, to move, so I can read and write and draw and love. I fall short more often than I would like, but less than I anticipated. Every cafe, every work space, every library, brims with the buzz of life. I'm here now, at the Libe Cafe, 80% confronting the day.

I'm in a better state, but it all feels very beautiful. Suffering has meaning, even encouragement. Friends are real, accepting, unprecedently passionate. Every walk matters, but every outfit doesn't. This institution is so rich, in every way. God was merciful enough to let me in. How dare I let it go to waste.