This place is almost too idyllic. Cherry blossom trees line a grassy quad, criss-crossed by red brick walkways and blanketed with pink blossoms. The tree I sit against is dark and mossy, its roots and trunk forming a natural seat and its canopy arching over me. The delicate flowers that line the trees branches seems to lift them heavenward.
The brick, Gothic-inspired halls that surround the quad stand as sentinels, as if to keep out time and space as we know it. Indeed, the sight of petals borne gently to the ground on gusts of wind gives the illusion of time not simply slow, but stopped. A strange sensation, since this place throbs with activity – chatty students walking with a purpose, children wrestling in the grass, visitors posing for photographs with the trees. But here, under this tree – under my tree – it’s as if I’m separated from it all. As if life goes on around me, but I sit and watch, alone in this place.
EEMMMOOOO
How could you be so insensitive? I think I'll cry a thousand tears tonight.
And who's emo, Mr. Went-to-Seattle-for-Art-School?