The day wore quietly away, congruous to my feelings of desolation as it became slowly eroded by my preoccupation in classes and in my rigorous assignments. Towards the afternoon, the weather outside was rather brighter, and warmer than earlier that morning, and soon night was approaching. I had long been determined to ascend the day of classes and close the week with an enjoyable night with my friends. For this reason, I gathered a group of friends whom I had just recently been acquainted with, GP and Alex, and together stopped by a party situated on the other side of campus.
However, nothing could induce me to stay at the party merely minutes after arriving, for it lacked any sense of social enlightenment. I quickly learned that GP and Alex both thought the same way by their apparent bored expressions. Not far from the edge of the night, we decided to leave the party after shortly arriving, and once we did, we preceded to our visit our friend Justin who lived several blocks away. At no great distance from the scene of our night’s bitter disappointment, for the first block I walked alongside my friends, but by and by I found myself yards ahead of GP and Alex and soon arrived at Justin’s apartment alone. The activities that befell the rest of the night included lengthy conversations amongst one another, and uninspiring television that ultimately allowed sleep to transpire before me.
The next morning I was awakened by the sound of a garbage truck that trailed along the street adjacent to the windows of the room, its jeering and almost irritating sound interrupted the silence of my sleepy state of mind. I awoke still in my party clothes, and with my camera and phone still by my side, between what looked like four and five o’clock, since it was still heavily dark outside, with barely a hint of light. GP, whom I was extremely grateful for still being there with me, slept soundlessly, despite the noisy racket outside, on a nearby couch situated perpendicularly to mine. Alex, too, was still asleep, curled up in a tiny fetal position amongst the pillows laid out across the floor. The knowledge of having my friends still with me comforted me, as it erased any chances of facing the humiliation and discomfort of staying in someone else’s home without any proper invitation.
I lay there for a short while to decide on what to do. To stay would mean to go back to sleep and awake within a few hours. To leave would mean to find my way home, alone. Regardless of how much I longed to continue to sleep, within the few minutes of pondering, it appeared necessary to leave the apartment and return back to my dorm.
Before I embarked on leaving, I took notice of a group of old, stout trees outside of the windows. Its lightly glistening leaves possessed a serene yet boastful quality that laughed and frolicked in the breeze. The tiny incisions of sunlight shone threw their shadows on the white, barren walls of the room so conspicuously as if one could almost outline the leaves on the walls. There was also a willow tree to the right of the window that stood amongst the others with profound loneliness and melancholy. Its branches hung low, almost as if nothing above would attract its acknowledgement, or lift its hunch-backed posture to reach a height that portrayed a state of liveliness. The willow tree conjured my own melancholic state in regards to my nostalgia. Thus, before those feelings overpowered me, I quickly and quietly made my way out of the house and was soon welcomed by the cool, murky darkness of the outside.
Walking home did not satisfy my thirst for home, nor did it occupy any sense of connections with my new environment. The lines of stores and half-made buildings along Commonwealth Avenue that I passed by hardly seemed like an atmosphere of familiarity. However, as the morning advanced throughout my walk, surrounding colors changed. The hazy dark blue of the skies became flecked with illuminating blotches of merry orange lined with gold, which gradually spread until the whole surface of the skies wore bountiful ornaments. The extended procession of the street, with its brick, dull-colored buildings and stores looked meaningless and empty against the dazzling richness of the horizon. When the cool early morning breeze grazed the emptiness of the streets, the buildings alongside of it embraced its comfort, as if both civilization and nature formed a pact of reconciliation for merely a second. With the warmth and comfort of this notion, I continued to walk home, but now walked with the breeze alongside of me.
I stopped to sit on a lonely bench the BU beach along the Charles River and admired the awakening morning that surrounded me. The Charles River that separated Boston and Cambridge appeared long and wide, serene, continuous and forever flowing. But what is behind this façade of great natural perfection? What is concealed beneath the surface of this mass of water? Could there be a great depth of underlying, unknown qualities, hidden wonders, or even troublesome undercurrents? At once, the river appeared to be rather solitary, alienated and inconsistent to its city surroundings, very much like myself.
This notion commenced an illumination upon my own journey to this foreign land. During my lengthy gaze upon the wondrous river, I concluded that, like the river, my journey ahead shall possess qualities that may only occur beneath the surface, with undercurrents, some stormy, others tranquil. But like the lone river, my journey will possess layers of development and growth, with grace and fortitude, and shall nonetheless persevere through streams of adversity towards oceans of opportunity. The direct association with the river cascaded a wave of encouragement and allowed me to reconcile my feelings of nostalgia with an ever-growing desire to adapt to my new home.
My life since then has rolled on, not only for the day of which I was speaking, but also for the several weeks since. My new home at Boston University has rallied numerous shocks to me, but now I am smiling as I incessantly swim along my river of fresh currents.
