The end of the semester is nearly upon us, and (as with most endings) things are narrowing down. Days have numbers; they are counted. I am pretending to count them, but only for appearances. In truth, I feel oddly detached from the near-reality of exams and break.
Regardless of my aloofness, however, the end cannot be ignored. Classes have finished and reading period has begun. It’s a strange time between working and waiting, preparation and procrastination. Meanwhile, the kids are partying.
As a younger student at Colby, I didn’t understand this particular party season. Why poison your brain and body right when you need it most? Why celebrate before the hardest part is over? (God, I was so pretentious.) But I get it now. We need to celebrate in the hard. We need to breathe some life into it.
As the semester draws to a close, I’m trying to do some reflection on these past four months. To make things easy for myself, I’ll focus on the highs and lows.
The low of this fall was not a particular moment, but a general feeling. One of nervous exhaustion. This semester pushed me into a corner of unhappiness and asked me to sit there for a while.
On October 28, I wrote: I sit and think about all the things that scare me Holding these fears so close to my chest I feel them singeing my skin Their smoke makes me cough My clothes are on fire I’m begging everyone to notice And I don’t say a word
This fall, I did a lot of sitting and thinking. But I also did a lot of walking. I started taking nighttime walks in early November, an old habit rekindled from the quarantined spring of 2020.
On these walks, I like to visit the observatory on top of campus. The spot has always been a grounding one for me. On that secluded hill, surrounded by still trees and night skies, I feel closest to myself. The real me, not this nervous, fragile creature I’ve become.
It’s a short walk to get to the observatory, less than ten minutes from my dorm room, but I savor the time. And as the temperatures drop, these evening trips only grow more invigorating. I like being swallowed by the cold; it helps me feel my body better, from the inside, as a soft animal trying to keep itself warm. My fingers grip each other inside coat pockets, holding everything in place.
My favorite memory of this semester is one walk in particular. Around midnight on November 12th, my friend and I headed up to the observatory, but we didn’t stop there. With music playing on my speaker, and the light buzz of beer in our bodies, we wandered into the surrounding forest. The frosty trail was impossible to discern without a flashlight, but we didn’t bother with one.
The two of us walked slowly instead, occasionally reaching out for one another. And we never stopped singing. Not even when my speaker died.
Afterwards, I wrote: I love Colby most on its edges And I love meeting myself out there I love her sense of limpidness in the sudden gravity of a small body on a big planet
And I’ll end on that high.
Quiet Histories 