Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed in this article do not reflect those of The Collegian.
The first light is hours from now. Throwing on my parka, I brace for the stabbing cold on the other side of the door. Two inches of lumber is what separates us — imported from a forest — crafted in a factory to serve its purpose until it is renewed. The streaks of the thin coat of black paint are distinguishable in the glaring light. As I pressed forward, the wind rushed in after releasing the lock. The door squealed as it closed, ending with a slam. The eerie, yellow-tinted light is cast in the radius that contains me. Step after step, moving soundly towards the Land Cruiser, the silence is startling. Apart from the single whining street lamp and swarming flies, I am alone in a world with billions. My shadow begins to fade. No birds are chirping, yet; only the voice of the now gentle breeze funneling through the underpass, calling on me to keep moving.
Contact columnist Patrick Bottin at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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