At my place of study,
a group of south campus students
of science and quiet, collected knowledge,
have long nights of graph paper and lab manuals.

But today they open a window,
and welcome the beautiful day.
"This is so north campus of us,"
they giggle--as light spills into the room.

A simpler life, they're sure,
of an artist at play.

As if we don't slave away
by the light of monitors
in the darkest minutes of night.

As if long hours aren't
spent with ink & crumpled paper

As if there's no science
in the art we create.

Yet these lines are experiments
tested in the fiery eyes of youth & age.
These building blocks
are bodies in motion
and chemicals bubbling
in the life & the lifeless;
spilling ink onto the page.

In these words are everything I've ever lived--
everyone I've ever loved.
I am these words; and
these words are me in my entirety.
My totality in a handful of symbols.

This is the science of living,
and the study of purpose;
of love & passion,
and profound, decadent
anger, and loss.

Each line a bubble of life
in a barren sea,
or a moment of clarity.