we are so tired of meaning nothing

So I'm sitting up in the Alpha Center on the fourth floor of Naz in the far left hand corner (so basically in a tower). There are no tutees for us to tutor today so I have much time available for unfinished homework and introspection.

It was still dark outside when I left my dorm this morning. I went to catch the shuttle at approximately 7:44am, and I missed it by a minute. Usually when you miss the shuttle on the front side of the building, you can quick run down three flights of stairs and make it out to the other side in time to catch the bus at the street corner. However, even though I practically slid down those steps (epitome of gracefulness) I reached the corner too late.

Luckily the other shuttle from Arden stopped in the middle of the street to let me on and the bus driver asked in his oldish way if I needed a ride. Why yes I do.

Well anyway, I made it. And now I have to share this poem submitted to the Inkstone by one of the most dear women I have met. This one can be felt:

We Are So Tired of Meaning Nothing
Ashley Beck

That was the summer we strung moments together
recklessly and pinned them to walls in a room
with no windows. We were strategic.

I wanted to take pictures of every place we sat:
the back of the laundromat with the fake flowers,
the bench behind the cheap resort,
the red table outside the drive-in restaurant.
Important, empty places.

I can tell you there was a war going on,
but don't ask me to distinguish premature
moment from premature moment.
The days meld together like warm blood:
I forgot to write them down.

Your lips are taut; smoke dances around them. I lie
in the dirt next to the curb just so you'll tell me to get
up. A debauched haze interrupts the skyline. Here,
there are no stars. I ask, "Why are you so calm?"
"Because when you're this way, I have to be."

We are nervous people.