Jennifer A. Chin (cswallow) wrote,
Jennifer A. Chin


In my ears: the sound of water from the fountain sitting on top of the refrigerator. It bubbles. I changed the light tube in it today and it's green. Matrix-esque. Eerie. But beautiful like Spring.
George Winston, delicately picking out slow, lush melodies. I feel lacy and sweet.

I'm stretched out on my bed, the quilt my mom made for me draped neatly to either side. I'm wearing the pants that Eric got me because they're too comfortable to take off. The light is brightly cozy. I'm warm.

This morning I was startled by the sunrise. It made me look up from the table where I was studying Spanish subjunctive verb conjugations. It was orange against the bricks of Shepard, all orange but for the spidery shadow of a tree. And the clouds were being swept across the sky. I watched them moving, tracking their progress along the tops of roofs. It was blue. and purple. and yellow and pink and gold. It startled me. I flung the windows open to hear the wind laughing in the branches.

I slept after Spanish today. Right through lunch. I dreamt I gave away the man I loved to a woman who needed him more. I didn't know any of them, but I've had the dream before. And then I ate a feast of crabs and scallops and hors d'oeuvres. The colors were vivid. Everyone was exquisite and glamorous. Even me.

I missed lunch and made macaroni and cheese. I had some leftover cheesecake, carefully preserving a rectangle of it "to eat later tonight." Last night I waited in line for 40 minutes during Munchies to get it. I gave 1/3 of it away to the hall monitor because she looked lonely. I don't even know her name.

There are books everywhere. Scattered. Pages, too. Paper and pictures. Work and comfort.
And wouldn't you know? I think I'm at home here.
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