Hayden Downer ’26
There is a small, green plant, always sitting on my windowsill, that keeps turning towards the light. I must constantly remind myself to rotate it every day, so it does not grow unevenly, but somehow, I always find it in the same direction again. I praise the plants certainty because it always knows which way to face without overthinking it.
At the farmers market, I watch strangers choose fruit like it matters – patting cantalopes, turning apples, and cleaning off oranges with their hands. I do the same thing too, pretending I know what I am specifically looking for. Maybe were all just looking for what feels right and hoping we did not make the wrong choice.
Occasionally I catch myself scrolling through old photos like I am stalking an outgrown version of myself. I recognize my face, but I can not interpret or remember the thoughts behind my eyes. It is strange how proof of memories stay, but the internal thoughts from that memory fade away. Memories are not reliving an experience but rather reflect growth and experience.
Sometimes, late at night, I listen to the dark quiet my room and soften the brightness of my carpet. The noise of the day finally vanishes, and I can almost hear my thoughts settling in. In these quiet moments, life feels slow enough to visualize, like change is not always so sudden, but something that gently grows over time without even noticing.