Three After Midnight

Feeling my heart flutter against my ribcage in a solitary attempt to escape the telegrams from my brain, I stand up to go. Walk out the dorm room door and follow my feet. They take me to the vending machine and I fumble for some change, buying a can of cold root beer; the symbolism caked beneath the fog of the hour and the pain of my heart. I walk out of Mac and down towards the power lines and apartments. My feet walk me down the middle of the road for a brief stretch and then veer me off course down the mulch paths that lead to the tennis courts. In the shadowed corner of the court I kick off my shoes and feel the warm pavement on my soles. I lie down and stare at the stars, the wind whipping over me,  my body suddenly aerodynamic in its curves. The stars look both bright and dim between blinks. After a while I walk more, towards the overlook seeking man-made light. The security guard begins to trail me here and I am sure he thinks me suspicious, drunk, insane, or all of the above. I sit upright, a plucked rose bud in my hand, on the rough overlook stone wall. The wind doesn't find me so aerodynamic this time, but more a barrier to batter against. My feet reach until, toes first, they touch solid ground and I am led back to Maclellan Hall; the guard in skulking pursuit. Of course I can't get in, so I slip along the shadowed side of the building to the back entrance. Upon hearing the 'beep, click' that speaks of entrance and safety, I rush up the stares to my dorm room. Stripping the layer of civilian clothes I donned upon exit, I find my uniform for bed of sweats and a dirty tank top. Then I remember this poem that Sarah read to me tonight. And *snap* it's been an hour.

On Pain
 Kahlil Gibran

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.