Browning Plaza

In all honesty, I probably would have been a better humanites major.
I had walked through this courtyard before, on my way to and from the starbucks in the hospital. The first time I walked through it, the full reality of my future and want to go to graduate school overwhelmed me in waves. That desire was still for science, but it had struck me as odd that this had happened in a hospital courtyard.
Tonight, I crossed again through this courtyard, and I was surprised to find myself presented with an image.
In my mind, I saw light streaming throught the leaves in the canopy of the skinny trees, implying youngness and oldness in one stroke, impressed by their height. I saw myself, sitting on the bench, the light hitting my hair, reflecting off in golden-brown sunbeams. On my lap there is a book with tabs and notes, and in my hand, a non-descript pen with which I am furiously scribbling. My head is bowed, my feet beneath the bench, pointing to each other, as if they were conversing through my deep concentration. The day is warm, and I am studying to be a creative writer, in this same courtyard, transplanted in a different university, one that embraces the romantic, the schools always featured in movies and books, the schools everyone hopes to attend. Or perhaps I am studying comparative literature, ensconced in my reading--or perhaps I am a linguist, silently mouthing words in a variety of foreign, far-off languages, imagining the beauty of each separate syllable on my tongue. Or maybe I am even a film major, going over scripts, writing in corrections, and going over camera angle choices, biting my bottom lip. Or perhaps, even, I am studying some obscure Russian author, brows furrowed in translation and intensity. I am dressed as such, knee high brown boots, and skinny jeans. A deep scoop neck, with my hair sloppily pulled back, falling into my face, which I silently and unconsciously push back behind my ear. Around my neck is a scarf, and my shoulder bag sits next to me on the ground--a deep mahogany, more books peeking out. I have dangly earrings hanging from my ears, swaying and glittering every time I adjust my hair, and I nervously touch my piercing higher up my ear while I chew on my pen, and consider these subjects in my romanticism.
It was then I knew I would have made a good humanities major.
But that's not the path I chose, and not the career I strive and live for. I am not trained or studying in the humanities, and so I pass from the courtyard, the image disappating. A chill in the air hurries me forward, the lost future behind me.