A Few Scattered Chords

Every afternoon, the boy living in the room above me sings and plays his guitar. I don't know who he is, and I probably never will. More often than not, it's a welcome distraction. I lay on my bed and look up at the trees, as my room is partially underground in the basement of Centennial Hall. I catch melodies and words, but most are distorted as they travel through the thin walls. But it doesn't matter. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one sitting alone, foregoing my work and thinking of nothing but the solitude of that moment. It's a precious, refreshing melancholy. I've learned in college that most things aren't meant to last forever, and that life is a collection of moments that you choose to do with as you wish. After this semester is over, I'll never live in a dorm room again, and my "traditional" college experience will soon be a distant memory. But that's okay. Once the pain of the broken friendships fades, I'll have memories like this, of being a twenty-year-old student caught in the middle of childhood and adulthood, listening to the falling rain punctuated by a few scattered chords.