Condemned to be free

I miss the angle of the sun, shining bright into your eyes as you head up the hill, cross the bridges, and walk the grass, wet with morning dew.  I miss its migration overhead, baking the ground below you, raising the scent of soil, grass, twigs, branches, resting logs, and old growth forest, all cocktailing together. I miss the cold air inside the buildings, the dorms, absent of any heating.  I miss the temperature change from the wet shade buried under the hugging families of redwoods, to the unobstructed convective heat that thrives outside the forestry confines.  I miss the curves.  The curves on the 152 or the 198, after half a dozen hours driving on a straight line.  The curves on Westcliff, the air saturated with salt and seaweed.  On campus, winding through the hybrid that is a respected educational institution and a summer camp on a hill.  Over the bay, over the clouds.  Monterey looks like an island, its neighboring land so often cut off by the fog.  I even miss the distinctive three knocks on those dark late nights by the CSOs.  Those anxiety-filled mornings with Self & Society.  The dread that there is a part II the next semester.  The walk back from Oakes and College 8.  Starting with the dirt path cutting through the small forest-filled ravine, up towards the design center overlooking the fields ascending down to the city, back into the forest trail tangent to the library, across the bridge to the financial aid office, and up through Cowell onto to Stevenson.  Running to catch the door to House 6 that is on its way to shut.   The 20 bus leaves at half past, I gotta run.