Under the dorm complex where I lived freshmen year, there are tunnels (that supposedly used to connect the entire campus instead of just the three surrounding dorms) which now are covered in graffiti. Well, actually, I don’t know if they were covered with graffiti back when they were in use too. The laundry room is down there, which I think is the only reason we were allowed to go down. Sometimes another door to another tunnel had been left unlocked and we could go exploring.
We found one room last year that just had trays and trays of rocks, labeled, stacked sloppily. We found a room full of old books. We found, on the wall, a long breakup speech written in sharpie. I doubt the person who it was intended for ever found it. And if they had, how would they have known it was for them? It wasn’t very specific
In case you can’t tell, I’m a little bit sad today. I took a red-eye back home from Seattle last night/this morning and I wish I hadn’t. I guess I don’t talk about it much, but being in a long-distance relationship is hard. We’ve been making it work (some times more so than others) for 2.5 years now though, so I guess we’re pretty pro?
Anyway, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about time. The picture above is from the aforementioned tunnels, and it made me think about what I was saying before about staying up late, all night even, for no reason.
Hours have started going faster for me, I think. Hours spent in boring lectures or MRI machines or cramped family roadtrips (dear parents, get a minivan…) seem to pass much faster than they did before. Maybe it’s because as we grow older, an hour becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our lives? That’s maybe a bit too poetic.
My doctor says that there is a 75% chance that I will still be walking in 10 years. I think he’s kind of ignoring (on purpose) that 25% chance of me being in a wheelchair at age 28. At least I’ll be done with medical school by then, but it still seems pretty young. And I don’t get how a 30% medication (what I wrote about in my last post) is supposed to sound like a giant percentage, but 25% is supposed to sound small.
When I’m just alone at night I have to think about things like this instead of getting to sit up late talking with my boyfriend about anything and everything. I remember when we first met, we walked around Barcelona for several hours just talking and drinking an incredibly disgusting kind of orange juice. Those hours felt pretty short too. Hey love, this one’s for you. Miss you.