Old Acquaintanceships

We do begin to become accustomed to always sound, always light, to the thick clouds of micropop vapor that drift through the halls, so thick in places we imagine we could lick the trans-fat straight out of the air. To janitors passing, complaining loudly on their cell phones at the crack of dawn - which is to say, before eleven on weekdays and two on weekends. To the indistinguishability between wet and moldering carpet, the drinking fountains whose filters no one bothers to change, and fresh Kimchi. All the early questions, the easy conversations are worn thin, the jokes are all tired... there's no more fun in these old acquaintanceships.

But now I eat seaweed. I can list at least 20 flavours of Ramen. With my eyes clothes I can hear and understand that Mayumi is making coffee and rice with her bottled water, pulling out her dry red pepper seasoning and sitting down to study. I know every resident by their laugh, their cough. And I see memories pass like motion blur ghosts from doorway to doorway, remember lying on the hard tile floor and laughing until we cried, ducking under raindrops as we ran to Subway, making footprints in the snow on Stankowski, an awkward spot or two worth a smile from a distraction... unfulfilled and fulfilled promises, that took physical form at some point and left footprints.

I should have blogged more when it was new. These things cease to be so fascinating but isn't that interesting in and of itself? Living here for a year, we've already painted the campus with enough sweat, tears, blood, colours of exhaustion, excitement, plans to make it ours.