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Went to my university yesterday for the presentation. It was for their arts magazine that they’ve decided to publish me in (hooray, since it’s open to alumni now…), but I was disappointed to learn that they didn’t actually have the magazines in yet.

 

Of course, this means I can now tell you guys that if any of you are interested in getting a free magazine of poetry, short stories, and photos/paintings, then please let me know. The editor told us that if we wanted a copy, to email her with our addresses and she would have one mailed to us, and since I see no reason not to, I extend this invitation to you as well.

 

 

I did feel creepy about being on campus though…I feel like all the time I spent there wasn’t mine at all, but that all the things I did were done by someone else. Someone who has died. I was never there, except when I was walking to the beat of my doom tracks, and all my warmth was compressed into a molten ball in my chest, so the snow that deigned to fall on my skin did not melt because I was so cold and did not care…and then yesterday, in my wolf hood and with the half-dead red tulip that I took from the statue of whichever saint that was in front of the greenhouse, and vaguely wondered what student had put the flower in his hand and why.

 

But I walked through all the old buildings that I used to spend so much time in, and I saw no one I knew, and no one knew me. And I sat on a low wall above where more tulips in pinks and yellows and purples were planted, and remembered that when I was in high school, we were not allowed to use them as our class flower because, according to our teachers, tulips are funeral flowers. It’s not true, but the memory did increase my uneasy sense that I was visiting my own grave.

 

…and the memory of making myself late for class, because I was on the phone with her and standing outside the library, where the red tulips are always planted, and she was telling me I should get off and go to humanities so I could be a better human…

 

 

I don’t know if I became one. All I learnt from most of my classes was how to take symbols and abuse them until nobody can understand what I’m saying. It amuses me, and I think that since I’ve graduated, I’ve done increasing amounts of it…but to what end? I don’t know.

 

 

 

Maybe next time I will write something more cheerful. Maybe I will write for you something that I have never attempted to put into so many words.

 

 

 

 

End.

 

 

Reeser

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