aerasio

Random Wondering

The sky is a pearl-blue colour, with tinges of orange, cast by the setting sun. The tree's are bare, skeletal, their shedded foilage masked by a blanket of virgin snow. Smoke rises in pillars from the center of the campus, from vents that protrude from the top of a short square dwarf of a building. They rise into the air, dissipating into the light mist that shrouds the University. A silence accompanies it.

The beginning of January. For students the world over, a hectic time of new beginnings and crazed working on holiday homework. Yet here at Hamline, it's quiet. Winter term classes start and end stealthily, quietly, as if trying to avoid notice. Students shuffle in and out of class quickly with little comment. The world seems a little grayer than usual. At sundown, campus is nearly deserted. A bubble world, a ghost town, right in the midst of the metropolis. I watch from the window of the library, the sole bastion of constant activity, and wonder idly......

The snow melts and falls and melts and falls and melts and falls again. A cycle, of sorts. The leaves are green, then red, then yellow, then brown, then dirt while new leaves grow again. Yet the cycle is not noticed. We see the leaves and they seem like they were that way forever, their color does not change before our eyes. Yet we look away and as we turn our heads again suddenly a season has passed and the same leaf is of a different hue. Regret, longing, what place have these in the whirligig of time? Who can say what merit there is in ignoring the present to live for the future only to be disenchanted and realize that it was another future you were seeking for, or that the future you seek is an idealized impossibility. Why then hope, for if hoping in this world leads only to dissapointment, why place hope in it at all?

Winter, a season for death; that is statistically proven it seems. The sun sets to early, yet the dawn does not hasten itself to the remedy. Therein, a pallor falls on the soul and many are driven to darkness. Is that not the truth? And not just for the common man too, look to the tidings of those great men. In the last year, how many have fallen? Ariel Sharon, Milton Friedman, Gerald Ford, men great in the world's eyes, stricken down by disease and death. A year of grave tidings is what we have left; but do we go to a brighter future? A dubious answer awaits...

A new year has come, yet winter has fallen upon us, and upon my heart. A darkness that weighs me. Melodramatic words fill my mind as the ground crumbles beneath my soul, casting it into a slushy pit of cold despair and solemn silence. A little longer though, just a bit more, and mayhap the sun will rise again. After all, the poet is wont to write only in life's extremes; at least it seems that way to me. This is just another rut I happen to have staggered in, and eventually, I will stagger my way out of it and cast these words out of my mind. Until then, I will wallow in the pit of my self-created misery, and wonder...


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J-term classes have started. I'm taking microeconomics. Its boring. Nuff said.

Looking forward to June, in case you couldn't tell.

Later folks

So said Aerasio at 15:27