[ 03-21-05 ] [ 8:20 p.m.]
[ Sometimes I miss the sun... ]

Sometimes I find myself missing the sun. My room in West Hall faces southwest, and from my desk in the corner, I can watch the sun on its daily descent below the horizon, watch as it dips below the t.v. room and sets the sky on fire.

Then, after its distant warmth is gone for another night, I feel strangely hollow, as though one of my closest friends has died.

The only thing that keeps the night from being so terribly empty is the fact that I don't have to look at it if I don't want to. Instead, I can watch the icicle lights hanging from the walls and wonder what the stars look like from space.

Sometimes I find myself missing the sun, even when it's hidden by nothing more than a sheath of black and an unspoken promise that another day will come.

It's metaphoric, it's fitting. Sometimes I find myself missing her, even though she is only two thousand miles and forty-six days away. Sometimes I find myself missing her, even though I know I'll see her again, in what is less than a blink of my life's eye.

Sometimes I watch the night from my window and wonder how long it will be before the sun rises again. Sometimes I watch the night from my window, and I miss her, and I wonder if she misses the sun as badly as I do.

Sometimes the sun is my only reminder of her.

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