I've been in a library full of undusty books and florescent ceiling lamps for the past few days, and I emerged to buy groceries at the organic market a few blocks from campus, on the river's side, and there I ate a crepe with lemon and butter and sugar in it. And the air was that bluish cold that made my fingers numb on the walk back.
My favourite pair of jeans got a hole in them, in an unpatchable place, and I have been forced to wear my other pair, which are two sizes too big and must be draw-stringed by a belt that doesn't go with them. I have made up for it by wearing stripey socks and reciting poetry to myself.
I'm sure it looks hilarious as I pad about the cobblestones with my hair flying every direction and my overstuffed bag and a stack of books on an author that very few people have heard of or care about, but I'm starting to feel more like I'm a real person.
I'm surrounded by extremely good people. How does this happen? What do I call my feeling for the words that make me rich and orphaned and beloved?
Just in this small space of time, I ask nothing more. I don't understand this feeling of contentedness.