Walking to the edge of the ramp, I felt calm, wanting to get away from everything, to think, but more than that I wanted to see those boxes. The park that this ramp looks over has these cement boxes, some raised and others built into the ground, and all of them have memories etched into the sides. Looking out at that field with the wind gently blowing my long, dark hair while waiting makes this feel like a movie scene. That reminds me of a quote an old teacher of mine once said: “If your life was a book, would anyone want to read it?” I would like to think that at least one person would pick mine up, but would it even stand out? So I have some ‘daddy issues’ with abuse, but who does not nowadays? It is sad to think that family problems like that are considered average.
‘Why am I here?’ the thought whispers itself from some hidden crevice in my mine; not here as in life, I already believe I know why, and not here as in college, because I am here to learn. Mainly, I am here to learn how to write books, ones people will want to read and also ones I simply need to write. ‘Why am I here?’ I am waiting for my friends so we can go to lunch together. I am waiting for someone to call me with more details about meeting up. I am waiting for something to happen. I am waiting… A clock in the distance chimes noon, meaning that I have two minutes left.
Spotting a bench not too far off, and still in view of our designated meeting location, I decide to go over and sit on it. In the almost month I have been here, I have never noticed this bench; this bench, which I must have passed numerous times. The engraving on the front reads:
Presented to Ohio University
Class of 1991
This bench has been here as long as I have been alive, yet I have never seen it, just like how others have not seen it and how others have simply walked past me without so much as a glance. I like this bench.
Checking the time, I see it is five past noon, so I decide to go over to one of the girl’s rooms, seeing as it is in the building right next to my own. As I do, it starts to rain, only slightly. The breeze picks up and causes the still-dry leaves to swirl around as the crunching sound of those I step on reaches my ears. This truly looks like a movie scene; all we are missing is the angst-y thoughts of jumping off the look-out at the edge of the ramp. Walking over I pass under an almost canopy of trees and find that under one is a scattering of bird feathers. Thankfully it seems as though there was no fighting, rather a shedding of feathers. They look beautiful, lying there amongst the pine cones and needles underneath the towering trees that overlook this area of the campus with pride.
Unable to find her amongst the few wandering students, I decide to sit and wait near the door. There are a few benches around, but I do not wish to sit on a bench, rather something more interesting, less common (no offense to my bench that I sat on earlier; rather, a compliment) so I sit on a block of cement that acts as a pedestal, marked with a band-aid. This is where I wait, and this is where I will start to leave my own mark on the world.
My afternoon musings