So I draw the curtains, with my window still open. I don't want people to see inside; feels intrusive.
The curtains here are orangey. They're green at home. An antithesis, if I think about it more (sometimes I'm tired and I don't want to think), and each reminds me of different things. Home reminds me of the distant past, and this room with the orange curtains reminds me of the present, if the present is something you can be reminded of.
I'm listening to a song, again. I've been listening to a lot of songs, these days.
New ones. Old ones. Friendly ones. Ones that cut you and make you think you'd rather die...these are sometimes necessary. If you want to know a person, just listen to the songs they've sent you; it'll tell you what kind of person they are. Or not. This song is a bit of all of it.
In the room with the orange curtains, I spend my days doing assignments, reading books, studying for tests, and chatting with people on Messenger. Quite a peaceful existence, really. Sometimes I wonder if I am not much of a feeler. Then my friend sends me a message and I remember that I am not as much of a robot as I think I am...either fortunately or unfortunately. Robots, for one, follow algorithms in everything they do, or are told to do. I don't.
Outside this room, I am pretty much the same, except I talk to people a little more. Outside this room, I am quite jolly, if I may say so myself. My friends here do not think of me as too quiet a person, insofar as people can be said to be too quiet. Outside this room, my otherwise drab existence fills with colours I haven't seen before. Our neighbours have made rangolis in front of their doors. In the night, I see fairy-lights twinkling in unusual places. Sometimes I hear music too. At midnight, most of it dies down. At midnight, you can hear the crickets chirping, or a boy talking on the phone with his mother. If you listen closely enough, you can hear people laughing, too. I think the only thing missing here is snow. But the night is dark enough that you would not need whiteness to accentuate its silence.
It's cold in the dark. Cold enough to take a walk, shivering incessantly (for some reason, I don't want the shivering to stop, though; keeps me awake). And while this walking business is still going on, I meet a few people. It is here that discussions about biology and bonds and assignments happen. Sometimes it is small talk, with many where-are-you-goings and where-have-you-beens and what-will-you-do-afters. Sometimes I am called back upstairs by a mysterious urge to quantify the darkness into zeroes and ones on a blank, white screen: although I believe darkness is not something that can be described (adequately and perfectly). Most times I fight this urge and keep walking, because how will I write if I do not experience? My imagination is a clichéd curry of random outpourings I have past regurgitated, just so. I believe things I have read in books, and watched in movies, without once stopping to see if they were true.
And hence it is here I wish to find truth. This place is somehow more real, even though all most of us students receive here is largely fabricated and unrepresentative of reality (you know, grades. It's sad, really). Here you can walk four kilometres just to find a place to eat, and traverse a considerable distance to buy a cake for your friend and classmate in the middle of the night, only to leave it in the freezer when you get back—it is not cake anymore, then, it is cake-matté. Nevertheless, as my friends and I sing happy birthday the next day, I realize this place could not have given me more: it's quite a gift. A present.
While we're wild and free
We'll skip like we're stones on the sea
We'll sing like we're birds in the tree that grows
Outside your window, while we're new and young
We'll shine like a morning sun
No matter the seasons that come and go
And which way the wind blows.