Lying here in my bed, a copy of Cervantes' Don Quixote lying on my lap, and my legs draped across his as he sits up reading Boethius' Consolation. My door is open, and I can see into the hallway. Lime green and bright pink crepe paper drape from the ceiling, reminding me of my 5th or 6th birthday, when my mom hung crepe paper across the ceiling, tying it to light fixture in the center of the room. Back then, did I wonder where I would be in college? I remember my mom telling me once that I would someday be a teenager, just like my cousin Teresa. I remember defiantly responding that I would never be a teenager; I would skip from elementary school straight into adulthood, avoiding the proverbial pain of puberty and entering the reasonable and ordered adult world. For the next few years, the concept of the teenage years frightened me. My mom said it meant I would become a big kid. 

Today is a breezy day, and the wind is circling through my room, threatening to knock my mail off my desk while fluttering the pages of my notepad. This breeze is invite the crepe paper to dance. The crepe paper hesitantly accepts, swaying in the breeze. On the wall, there is a 4' tall lime green music note, which I cut out of wrapping paper weeks before. They said they wanted the hall music themed. I tried.

The light from the window is reflecting the light switch, causing the silvery plate to appear like a memorizing mirror. On the same wall, my crucifix hangs as always, consistently reminding me of the Christian I am not, yet who I ought to long to be. My open door contains three items. The first is the name of a saint, Saint Bernadette. The hall director randomly assigned them. I also have my door tag, which has patterned scrapbook paper and a treble clef on one side. My name is in the middle. The third thing is an piece of white paper pained over with various colored X's. My little sister gave it to me so that those who do not want to enter my room know to stay away. She's a smart one. 

Someday, that birthday party of yore will be further in the past, and this present moment will be but a memory. Then, things will be figured out. Don Quixote will be read, my thesis will be written, and the GRE taken. I will have either married or left this man, and I may have children. Someday, those children will have grey hair and I white, and I my memory may allow me to either remember or forget these menial moments. It doesn't quite matter to me which it is, just so long as the breeze keeps blowing. 

Today when I woke up, I lied in bed for fifteen minutes debating whether or not it was more appropriate to wear flip-flops or sneakers to class today. Now, just before falling asleep, I realize that this decision was the most influential thing that happened to me today. The most stimulating debate in my mind. The most riveting bout of knowledge. Shoes.

                White-washed walls are appropriate for this dorm. For this white-washed life.  This morning I woke in an unusually a groggy state brought on my lack of sleep due to staying up for late-night conversations regarding college male’s inability to flush toilets and disgusting habits of releasing fountains of vomit into a urinal. Apparently, since freshman males lack the decency of my potty-training baby sister, “how-to-flush” classes are in order. This early-morning conversation was the second most stimulating part of my day.

                Back to the white-wash. It’s not entirely white. Scuff marks and dirt smears tell the story of riveting commutes to classes, trips to the drinking fountain, and late night drunken-stumblings that include bumping into the wall. The one beside J212 and J214 is from me. In a Socrates Meets Descartes induced coma, I shuffled my way down the hall to the drinking fountain on a study break. I tripped on my flip-flops. Maybe if I had chosen my sneakers that day, the hall would be cleaner.

                Socrates Meets Descartes. This may sound like a text assigned for my Foundations of Ancient Philosophy in Relation to the Father of Modern Philosophy course, but in all actuality, such courses seem to not exist in the real world. That’s why I spend my study-time reading texts entirely irrelevant to the daily quiz I’m doomed to fail tomorrow.

                But I’m getting ahead of myself. I woke up, decided on flip-flops, and paraded down the hall on my way to yet another day of learning how to achieve A’s without learning a thing. Walking through the first floor towards the door, I looked at the ceiling. The RA hung oriental lanterns there, unlit due to fire-safety rules.  Not even a fake candle, pretending to be burning in order to better illuminate the whitewash. These lanterns and I have a lot in common. Not even pretending to be illuminated with fire amid this academic setting. But at least I have footwear to entertain me. The foundations of my wardrobe are the flip-flops on my feet.

Why?

I hate this. I hate the lack of words, the frustrations, the want to be able to write something well only to be left with a jumble of inconsistent non-profundities that could have been written by my little brother. I am a spastic mind with no method to maintaining the median between monotony and madness, and I hate it.

Nonetheless, I must write. Far too much of my day has been spent dwelling on one topic: marriage.

Why? Why would I be thinking about this? I am a twenty year old student with a lifetime worth of aspirations that cannot be completed if I get married. I want to finish my college education. I want to get my masters of education through ACE or TAC, working in underprivileged schools to truly educate students who struggle, making a difference not only academically but in other ways as well. Part of me wants to join the Peace Corps, experience another culture, and teach students who teach me another paradigm of the world. This same part of me wants to do missionary work, not because I feel qualified or as if I have anything to offer, but because I want to learn to just be with another, to see them for who they are and allow everything to be ok, even if it isn't. I want to travel and see places, visiting relatives in Italy who I keep contact with yet have never met. I want to enjoy the diversity of life across the globe while furthering my education, a task that would be difficult if I had a family.

In addition to this, part of me dreads the concept of married life. It seems unfair that young couples so in love necessarily must meet the fate of falling into everyday routine. It seems that all relationships eventually simmer down to daily life with no excitement or surprises. I enjoy getting to know him. I don't want to know him well enough that there's little left to know, and, alongside this, I dread knowing him well enough to see those sides of him I never wanted to know. I don't want to see him someday so caught up in the routine of work and home life that he forgets his purpose, yet we both struggle with purposelessness now. I don't want to see his already occasionally strong anger deliberately directed at someone who really hurt him or us. I dread the thought of doing infinite piles of dishes, changing diapers, and dealing with those inevitable daily disasters alone while he is gone to work, too far away for a hug. I dread knowing his work is stressing him out, yet I am too caught up at home to give him a hug. I don't want to reach the day where I have my problems and he has his, yet we lack the time to fully discuss both. I don't want this to become our problem. Marriage seems like such a fleeting star in the night sky, a glorious meteor shower with a myriad of stars, only to sink into a greyish haze after the honeymoon is covered by clouds.

Yet, I miss him so now. Despite by fear of monotony, someday, at the end of the day, I just want to come home, fall into his arms, and know I am accepted and loved by at least one person in this dismal, dark, dreary world. I want to have those petty arguments that bring tears to my often-too-dry eyes, tears both from being hurt from the argument and from knowing he's worth arguing with. I want to laugh with him as we struggle to figure out the best way to arrange the furniture in the living room without putting the t.v. in front of the window or blocking the entrance to the dining room. I want to feel so drained every morning from a night up with the baby that I am forced to take up his habit of drinking tea, sitting down every morning to enjoy a cup with him. I want to sit in a corner and sulk after he angrily informs me that I'm too self-focused, falling short as both a wife and mother. I want to become frustrated when he fails to fix the faucet, despite my persistent pleadings. I want him by my side while we struggle to educate our kids to truly have a passion for learning. I want to be exasperated alongside him at the Legos left out on the floor. I want to see his eyes mist up when our daughter shows of her dress for her first dance. I want to have his shoulder to cry into after the police call at midnight to inform us our son has been in a car accident. I want to share the joy when we revive the news that our child is engaged. I want...

I want every second of every day to be spent in knowledge of our commitment to each other, yet this is the thing I also almost dread. This is what I am afraid of.

I'm only twenty and still in school. Why have I spent a significant part of today thinking about this?

fo' schizz

"Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair."

--Chesterton

Sheets.

Sliding under my sheets into bed--I do it every night. Every night, I go through the same routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and crawling under those dreaded sheets, knowing that the next morning I will wake up just as tired as I went to sleep. Not tired physically. Tired mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Sometimes, I seems as if that one act--sliding under the sheets--is suspended in eternity, never-ended. It is as if that action were my one reality and everything else were naught but an illusion of smiles brought about by delicious chocolate chip pancakes and breakfasts with friends. Of long walks with a man who I think I love, but internally I haven't the faintest idea what that means. Of a sense of sadness at the realization that I could spend my entire life looking for my true home and never find it. Of longing to understand what goes on behind those beautiful hazel eyes. Of missing the days when my not-yet-dreaded sheets were covered in princesses whose hair I would trace with my finger when sleep evaded my six-year-old self. Of missing the person I used to be back where all that mattered was the lime-green Popsicle I slowly ate while sitting in my favorite climbing tree. Of a curiosity as to why leaves rustle the way they do, so musical and so peaceful. Illusions. Is that all they are? Is there no other reality other than these 100 count pastel purple sheets? It is here where this reality seems more real and concrete than the sound of my keyboard clicking as I type out these words.

A hypothetical situation somewhat rooted in reality.

I suppose there are certain times where certain things should not be said, where the words of certain individuals are all to menial in light of the sorrows of this world. What I have to say is small amid this vast recession and millions of Americans looking for work so that they can afford their Starbucks runs. This is minute when put alongside recent natrual disasters and the lives lost and pain caused to so many. It hardly compares to those whose lives were smashed to pieces when an airplane dive-bombed during an airshow or the Indiana State Fair grandstand fell on the audience. The reality of the millions of people dying from aids and all the starving children tower over my miniscule issue. Amid the hurt of this world, this issue seems next to nothing. I am just one person, with few friends, living a small life. I realize I do not matter. Nonetheless, this matters to me. Because it is these little things that add up to create a larger things. Because if we could resolve issues on the level of the individual, maybe, just maybe, greater issues would fade. Because, well, when it comes down to it, why can't we all be friends?

I realize this question is absurd not only among the pain and suffering of our world both present and past, but even on the level of the individual. I know that you may be so busy that you cannot handle the stress of branching out and showing cordiality. I realize you have a test to study for, studying which apparently consists of sitting in a lounge and talking to other friends. Without me. I suppose that booth in the dining hall just must have the most comfortable seats, unlike the one I sit at. This is why you walk by this half empty table, which a year ago you would have sat at, to go back to the booth away from others. I guess the reason you never invite us along is because your car does not have enough seats. It is ok. It really is. I have my own friends, and, just so you know, I also have a car. I can bring my own seat. But, of course, you were not aware of that. We have only been distant acquaintances for a few months now. But... before then, we were friends.

Truth be told, what I am trying to get at here, is... I miss you. Trying to reason with your rational is like trying to accept the rational behind avocado pits or the beauty of rustling leaves. See, you are a really cool person. Really, really cool. I know that if you would just let me talk to you, I could see the beauty in your story. I am not asking for a deep, interpersonal relationship. I am not even asking for friendship, although I do wish it. All I ask is that you take that cold shoulder, apply some de-icer, and let me share in your smile. The front of your face is so much more lovely than the front of your hand, which says "stop. Don't look at me." go away." I want to see that--your beautiful self--in your friendship. I want to see your smile

It would have to be *this* big

"It would have to be thiiiiiiis big" My five-year old sister, Gracie, reached to the sky with one arm, stretching the other arm to the ground and spreading them as far apart as they would go.

She was explaining how big a drop-down/multi-vinyl record player would have to be in order to hold 200 records.

"That's not big enough!" Brendan, our nine year old brother, commented, always wanting to be the knowing older brother.

"It's THIS big!" Gracie emphasized again, struggling to stretch her small arms apart just a little further.

Brendan rolled his eyes at her physical limitations, forgetting that a record-player could likely never hold that many vinyls.

It's funny how sometimes the simplest things point towards the deepest realities. Gracie was trying everything within her limitations to portray what she believed to be true, and yet she fell short. I guess that's like life. Some things are beyond us, beyond our abilities. All we can do is try anyways, stretching as far and living as best we can.