Wandering down the street, weaving in and out of bikes. Up the familiar stairs, aiming for that lonely spot of sunshine. A butterfly rests lightly upon the dusty pink top of a rusty chair. As soon as you catch (what must be, must be) its eye and smile, it’s gone.
It’s just another day here. Sun shining down, laptop open, typing away at something that your friends and your professors and your conscience tell you you shouldn’t, because it’s not “productive,” because it won’t “get you anywhere.” And it’s true, by their definitions. Simply by being here, we’ve internalized the belief that anything but going, going, going, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, is sinful.
But sitting here with the sun kissing your bare shoulders, why should you care? It’s a beautiful feeling, as if the sadness and the stress and self-doubt are contained in the cold within you and — just for a moment — they’re relieved.
We are lucky to be here. Some would criticize our every complaint, every tired sigh, every admission of stress. Because we are so lucky to be here. Because not everyone else is.
But because we can, we do our best. We appreciate the sun, appreciate the butterflies. Cry when we’re sad, and shiver when it’s cold. And do our best to help everyone else see the sun.