During my short time at Yale, I had associated with three theater kids who would sweep down the streets in a line and sing songs from Hamilton. We went to cafes in the morning, lectures in the afternoon, and they had good taste.
They were also distressingly loud when they sang. But sometimes people clapped because they were spectacular. Only in the penetrating gravity of the great libraries did their outrageous confidence trip and finally collect itself.
We poked around dark corners and hidden stairwells, which, in their secrecy, made us feel as though we were up to no good. There was, of course, no one to be annoyed by us at all. But that didn’t stop our silly delight when we found our way atop tall towers and saw the sun set between our reflections, on the windows which must have also captured once, the wandering thinkers of a hundred years.
I imagine them dwelling downstairs between the books. With candles between shelves and floors between floors. A staircase wrapped around a wooden elevator like a treehouse, or so it made us feel. We made sure no one else was on the floor, and they started singing again. Heard perhaps, by the darkness. And when the sun withdrew itself and the shelves became dark and cold, they also fell silent because they scared us and we left.
Outside, the rain had stopped and painted the stones with strokes of gold, and just for that night we wandered through the smeared canvas of an impressionist. Below lampposts were sparks of green. They were fireflies, and I gasped, because they were magic. They accompanied us to the gardens and waited outside the ice cream shop, until we finally settled on the lawn and watched the others play football. We sat and talked about our countries, and the great ivy plant which grew above us. And when it became late like it always did, we’d set a spot to meet the next day, and again, on the last day. It was a promise.
Was the experience life-changing? Well, it was so short I barely got to know anyone. But now it’s quiet without them, so something must have changed. I think it was the people. Knowing that there are a hundred and eighty of them from every corner of the world who I’ve met, talked to, and loved for just a minute before dispersing to our countries like pollen from a flower. The same flower. And even now when it is late and quiet I think of a certain promise. It is a young and hopeful promise, and so it is bound to manifest.
Thomas, Li Ren, YYGS 2024, China