The Coming and Going of Spring

Death, Rebirth, Decay

“Silence there, and nothing more,” I think as I leave the deserted laundry room. No waiting for an open dryer this day. No eye-rolling at all of the illiterate pests that so often invade and offend the air I’m forced to breathe under threat of suffocation. I press the elevator button—it’s been defaced, apparently by fire. Probably some guy’s lighter. Almost everybody on campus smokes. Damnéd beasts with little else to do than desecrate a body’s senses.

The Elevator doors open wide their arms, embracing my shadow that stretches fast into the lighted square of solitude. That isn’t always the case. Normally there are various obtrusions—one or two mates mating, a group getting high, a lone bloke swooning as though he were on a boat rather than the University Elevators. Not tonight. Not this day, nay no not these days. Instead I walk onto the lonely Platform, step into the cold confines of the four by six foot Elevator with not a soul to threaten my presence. None else than myself is here extant. Silence there, and nothing more.

I peer into the desolate bathroom. The windows there, as ever before, are left gaping and the cold drafts of pestilent air fills the room and all but chills the very marrow of those bones that flesh is heir to. The room is dark. Nobody around to turn the switch—I, for the first time that day, gave light to the room. Fleeting light, of course. The inevitable spread of darkness is ever looming in the wake of stupidity’s left darkness. Silence there, and nothing more. My shadow passes itself over painfully bright and whitened sinks. It is only fleeting, the lights ever flickering to the temp’ of some unheard and unseen ballad. Silence there, silence and nothing more. I turn the switch, leave the silver, shining faucets left alone in shape of cold, wet mausoleums. It is a hard task, a strife of a battle, to shine through such a dark night.

Halls-- the halls are empty. Silence there, silence there and nothing more. The days roll swiftly past, the nights float silently through. No molestation in these halls, only shut-tight doors and full music’s closes. No echoes to be heard in these plain corridors; All is empty. All is quiet. Quiet, most all has been quiet. Noise is such a fleeting thing. Made only of a single note, sound is doomed to an eternity of silence. One ear is all it takes, one ear for a passing voice to be heard and then forgotten. There is oft little distinction between night and between day, though of course any sane man should inform the eager ear of the constant, Celestial division. Alas but all grows quiet, most all grows forgotten. Silence there, and nothing more.

The days pass swiftly into months and into years, and the leaves green show first their trees in glorious life bathed in a transpiring light, then yellow, then crumble, then float away, gloating all the while at those who chose to stay with arrogant delight.

--

And yet, despite their gloating they never fail to come back. Insolent little things, most fragile things they come back. The laundry room today was full pressed with the heat of existence and the press of jostling bodies. Noise, voices, single-celled notes filling the air’s offending throats. The wind today does not sing, the sun this day does not shine. The Elevators make their rounds in their infinite cycles, and I board the Platform with its mating mates and know the group getting high was here not too long ago. My shadow disappears at the opening of the doors; Too many obtrusions. There is no room here in these heated confines for a meaningless existence, a pointless presence. Busy, flocking hears here, and nothing more. They come and they go, leaving behind their stench. Such Constance—such a Rank state of being is ours! They always come back, no matter the lack of spirits or want they always come back. They are busy, flocking hears here and nothing more.

I peer into the ringing bathroom. The windows are, as ever, mercifully left opened wide, letting out the pestilent air that fills the room and offends the sense. The room is painfully bright, the switches are left forever in a state of arousal, just daring the world to turn them off. The offending light is a fleeting sort, but as always leaves a faux glitter in the air, an offensive shimmer. The shining silver faucets sparkle and drip, drip! drip; A litany of single lonesome notes that fill the bathroom’s pestilent air! My shadow here does not pass itself over painfully bright, whitened sinks. They are busy, flocking herds here, flocking herds and nothing more. They are marching herds, though they of course march to the rhythm and the schism of unheard and ill-tunéd drummers whose unheard tempos and unknown times are extant only in their heads, their minds too busy and full for any outside synchronisation.

The halls are trampled through with mud; They are busy, flocking herds here and nothing more. Bustling corridors—the senses are ever attacked and the senses are ever unhinged. Swinging doors and music’s inexistent closes; Echoes assault the ears, the single note’s battering ram breaking and splitting and jarring—stubborn little notes, they will leave their mark. There is such great distinction between opposing hours—the sun in all his glory finds sway in innocent minds, while those glistening, discerning orbs find silent sleep in quiet dreams. They are busy, flocking herds here, flocking herds and nothing more.

And the days roll slowly into months and into years, and the yellowing leaves show next their trees with blood, then a crowning mud, then crumble, then fall away and gloat to all who chose to stay.