I don't always believe I live here.

All the proof to the contrary, the midterms with my name on every page, the mirage of gothic enchantment no one anti-make believes away, the sign on the door "Happy Birthday Samantha," this moment it strikes me as odd. Ostrich picking her head out of the sand of books, the sleepless sleep of hell week, the darkness of the theater to notice where she is, I am. Sophmore year in a room with a dark massive built in desk, streamers left over from sweet surprise, someone else's things too. Studying. In college, a collage of all the things I thought it would be thinly plastered over the joy and pain of perpetually being human. It's easier than last year. I don't sigh myself to sleep missing. It's delightful and intoxicating and dangerous to forget where you are and be buried under obligations you volunteered for. But then there's lying in the grass, shoes off, feet in the air. Reading in the courtyard I came to Yale because of. Creeping towards the corner inscribed with Latin as the afternoon shadows chased me in the direction of morning. Following the crisp sunlight that sharpens the edges of buildings, stops thoughts from blurring, clears up complexions and complexes, I am deeply happy.