Reflecting on public spaces:

I chose to observe the cafeteria at Decary on my campus. When walking in there are tables and booths lining the walkway to the register. There’s a small tall bar area where people can sit, mostly those who are alone. There’s an overwhelming clatter of silverware on plates and a roar of voices from those who are enjoying their dinner and the company of friends. As I walked in I smelt a rather unpleasant smell of mixed foods. People are forming lines at each food station with plates in their hands, waiting patiently for their turn. Every now and then the ice machine rumbles and you can hear the crack of ice cubes falling into a cup.  The cafeteria is rather drab and dark with florescent lights illuminating the room. As I walk up the ramp to the main dining room I am welcomed with groups of unknown people at random wooden tables. The sunset on the Saco river lights up the wall of windows behind them, giving the room a subtle glow. People line up at the ice cream bar after they finish their meals. They often complain about there never being any ice cream left. As I look around at all the unknown faces I can’t help but think about how each persons day has been remotely different, but somehow we all end up at the same place everyday. Somehow I think to relate this thought to life. We all have a different life. No two lives are the same. We each see things differently, have different thoughts and ideas. We act differently and have different aspirations in life. Yet we all end life the same: with death.

Reflecting on private spaces:

I am in my room. The third floor of Assisi Hall. Three white cinderblock walls and one blue surround me. They are cold to the touch. The white noise of fans are blowing and drowning out the lyrics of the bumping bass next door. The windows are open, so the sound of construction flows in. There’s beeping and the rhythmic crack of a jackhammer. The blinds are half drawn. The light of the quickly fading day only illuminates the bottom half of the room. I am on the top bunk. The sunlight doesn’t quite reach me.  The blankets are wrapped around me for warmth. My roommate is asleep on the top bunk across from me. Every now and then she will toss and turn. The tapestries hanging on the walls flutter silently  from the breeze. This is my new home. Away from college, back home ten hours away, my family has moved into a new house. This is a house I have not yet been in; a house I have not yet lived in. I have no home back in Maryland. This dorm room is the closest thing I have to my own space. The closest thing I have to a home. I question if this is how I should feel. Should I feel like a stranger to a place I once called home? Shouldn’t I consider my dorm a home away from home, or just a temporary space? But instead I don’t see it as a temporary space. I feel as though I should be homesick, but I’m not. Is that because I don’t actually miss Maryland, or is it that I feel that I am already home?

 

 

(Disclaimer: I chose my room as a private place despite the activity saying not too because I am sick and cannot leave)