I sit in the dark of my room, the dull flow of my desk lamp of the page as it hums its florescent hum. I look out over the darkened cityscape of the city I'm now forced to call home. Not that I'm sad about it - the ensuing months will be filled with joy, I'm sure - but it wasn't home. I think of Marcho and how I'll likely miss his 21st - unless I can think of a clever way out of class and to earn enough cash to get home. The darkened McGill campus stretches out before me and the streetlights glow like four-pointed stars against the glass of my sealed window - safe from the negative degree temperatures outside.
A giant red sign says, towering over the other buildings. The trees are still leafless, lifeless, brown stems connected to the earth waiting to blossom in the coming spring - a spring that ever seems to want to come. I find it strange to think that I have so little time left in this room of mine - apartment 301 - in this house; a house once full of strangers and now full of friends; family. A cheesy and cliched sentiment, for sure, but truthful nonetheless. I miss home but not in the way I thought. I miss the people, the knowing, the security, not the land - just the familiar. My stomach sinks a little and I cough. A strange and educational trip this has been. And here I am, pen scratching recycled paper at 3:30am because my brain won't sleep and I keep coughing.
Scratch scratch scratch goes the metal nib against the page and marks are made, like magic, stained with ink. But the words aren't magic - just the ramblings of a brain over-excited and unable to comprehend how life brought it here. This fortune! I want nothing more than to sleep. Maybe I just needed to get all this out and I should do this sort of thing more often.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
- C.S. Lewis