My Couch on a Tuesday Evening

My couch on a Tuesday evening; the resurfacing of the day prior and its convoluted joys and excitements with a collection of figures whispering in candle light warmth. Warm tea is being poured over the cups of familiar correspondence. 

Flickers surround us- poised above stacks of wordless books that light our impotent edicts of unoriginal sentences. Verses of laughter that reach between the bound pages, making an imprint only to be recalled later. 

This couch as an indifferent pedestal to the extraordinary; these friends as a conventional cluster of voices lost in murmurs-remarkable to my ears; 

This room is a trite box filled with gems. 

Common, but mine to possess.

—

My time at George Fox has been a string of commonplace happenings that find significance only in my memories. There’s nothing remarkable about studying at the library ten minutes before your exam in panic, just to realize later that you knew less than you thought. There’s less to say about the first time you wrote a twelve page paper and cried because words finally began to lose all meaning, but learn later on that you love deconstructing meaningless texts to impress your professors. Orientation was convoluted with streams of: “Hi, my name is - what’s yours?” but it's where you meet your best friend who you’ll spend thanksgiving with (for the next four years).  

George Fox is a commonplace designed by outdated brick buildings and boring sidewalks. Spotted with plastic plates and face masks. Strung together by the usual morning playlist and anxious presentations. 

Unremarkable, 

commonplace but the home of favored memories. 

-Victoria Prieto