It is strangely comfortable how safely and spontaneously my
back melts into the mix of brick and backpack that function as the pit stop for
the specific realm on campus. All
around me people, of all shapes, sizes, ages, ethnicities, etc., wiz by, but I
remain at the pit stop – refueling – sometimes with friend, oftimes alone, as
the day turns to after light and the academics morph into athletics. I sit and I rest. Some would find it uncomfortable,
almost strange and meticulously attention grabbing, however here, and when I
say here, I mean campus, it is normal – accepted of the sort, if I may. So I lay, under the bush of no blueberries,
to the north of Retford. I wait, I
know not of the event I place myself there for, but I know that its arrival is
soon to come. It brings me joy,
just to ponder, to think and push down the pedals of my mind, knowing that body
will remain in rest as soul effects change in the pit stop.
I lay to the north of Retford.
The basics would call it “my favorite spot.” But we are not basics – we are the
northerners – pardon me, The Northerners, The Northerners of Retford, Land of
the mathematic majority, and painting and drawing minority. Though, thou mustn’t forget the small
tribe of video conjurers. Oh yes,
we must not forget those. We must
remember as we rest in our spot.
We must retain the memory.
We must expedite the urge of refusal and decompose the endorsements of
movement. For here at campus, we
are free. The Northerners may seek
seclusion, but they understand the tangible lack of animosity for their
hinds. They understand that as
they lay under the bush to the north of Retford, they are not alone – a sea of
other pit stops surrounds them and their own. The Northerners beckon the flood.
- J. A. Kind
No comments:
Post a Comment