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.