I ran away because I needed to hide the tears from my friends, because I could not explain to them my sudden collapse. I ran away and left a note late that night, they called me to make sure I was alright, and I assured them that I was and I assured them that they did not need to come after me, that I wasn't going to hurt myself. I just needed to take a long walk. So I walked down that dark street, hiding my thoughts in the shadows. Saturday night streets in this part of Boston are always filled with students going out to some party or club or going to a some study section or something, so it was hard for me to wonder alone, even though I would have prefered that much more. I walked down Bay State, where the fancy upperclassman brownstones stand, and where the grass and shrubbs are perfectly tended by BU. It's a fake reality. I just wanted to get out. I wanted to get out. I needed to get out. I continued walking down that road, which continues on to the BU beach, behind the college chapel. . . There's a walking bridge over the highway there, so you can get accross to the path by the Charles River. I walked up the stepps and watched for a moment as the traffic sped fast below me. Lights, yellow and white and red. Orange sky. So fast the cars moved so fast. . . For more than a moment I think I thought I might jump down from that bridge. . . There were no stars in the sky that night. Just clouds. Orange clouds. But instead I kept on walking over the bridge and down by the river. There's a rumor going on that the river's so dirty you could light it on fire. There's also a rumor that they put laxitive in the food at the cafeteria in Warren Towers, so that if the food's poisened, it will go though your system faster and you won't be as sick. I don't believe either rumor, but I thought about them both as I walked along the Charles. I stopped at a bench, and staired long and hard at that damned river. And the bridge, which read in graffiti along the side "property of yankee haters dot com, go sox". I wondered if the river was cold, and could imagine myself sinking deep into it, the water filling my lungs. I stayed on that bench for two hours. I memorized every sparkle of light on the water. If you listen very hard, you may be able to hear the water over the sound of the traffic in the back ground. The traffic, which speeds by, uncaring, unaware, to some meaningless destination. I write in my mind, and note every detail about the tree branches above me. I look in the water, the sky. I am no one. I am nothing. I was born without a name. I can not lay my claim to a world built upon unreason. Some where in the depths I will find the ink to write myself a name. The darkest hours bubble through my vains from the center of nowhere like thick black oil, streaming from my poors and covering my entire body. I can not wash it off my skin, it marks me like a scar that will never heal, even as I walk away into tomorrow.
