I am working on a paper right now—the paper that stands between me and winter break. However, I am not stressed about it, which is why I am allowing myself time to jot down these thoughts that keep interrupting my writing.
I live in a dorm overlooking Boston Common—perhaps one of the best pieces of real estate in the country if I do say so myself. I look down at the Common and think about the sign that reads “Established in 1634.” I’m looking down at our country’s history.
Then I glance up a little to see the Massachusetts State House and that is where I see my own history.
Every year, my high school orchestra for which I was a violinist, played on the grand staircase in the State House. Before that, I stood on those same steps during my third grade class field trip.
Every time I think about this, I cannot help but stop whatever I am doing, and just stare at the gold dome.
I had no idea that across the treetops, on the other side of the Common, I would attend my dream school. I had no idea that my dream school even existed.
When I was a senior in high school, I again had a class field trip to the State House for the Armenian Genocide Memorial. This time, I knew what was across the tree tops, and I desperately wished to end up there, but I was waiting on my acceptance letter.
At the time, I could not have known that I would sit here three years later staring at snow covered trees and lit up windows of our state’s capitol.
When I look at the State House, I imagine myself frozen in time, still waiting to perform holiday music with Strings Attached. It is as if I’ve forgotten that I left the building. My mind assumes that a younger me is standing there, my bow slightly hovered above the strings, waiting for the cue.