tightrope

I’m a tightrope walker, strung between the hedonistic abyss of winter break and the unforgiving canyon of organic chemistry. The stack of spring syllabuses are a prophecy whispered in Latin. The story they tell haunts my dreams - wherein each biochemical is a monster lurking in the shadows. “I’m not in a tailspin, that would be unfair,” I tell Lisa, “I’m in a lull.” “It’s like that awkward time, between a hangover and drinking again.” she laughs. Sure, I envisage late, week night study grinds, and sleepless hours, but the price of serious things isn’t trivial - success and hard work are, unfortunately, yoked together, like Shakespeare’s double shadow. A tough spring curriculum won’t stop me from taking 3 or 4 minutes to dance with roomates when a head-banger like ‘Spiral City’ plays or enjoying sudden, late night jelly bean melees. And then there are the spring things that spark joy. Walking to class on a brilliant spring morning, with birdsong, a warm sun and fragrant breezes. Laughs stolen in the back of classes, gossip and secrets exchanged over guilty coffee and croissant indulgences. Skipping through crowded halls, drawing looks ‘cause we’re clapping aggressively to each other, singin’ “You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh!” “Ok,” I think to myself, putting my hair in a ponytail, “I’m ready for spring semester - bring it on.” . . “You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh” Are lyrics from the song “Party” by André 3000 and Beyoncé