Patrick Gallagher
contributor

One day at the very end of freshman year, I saw something that changedmy life. It was my wrist, turning the key in my campus mailbox. My wristhad changed and with it my hand. But
there was the same mole, here the same veins, the same, old, boringlines in my palm. I was confused: What was the source of this massive newness? 

I rushed to the bathroom. I fixed my eyes on the mirror and almost fainted;lightheaded, I swayed on my heels. Somehow, whole body had changed. Butlike a kid on Christmas morning who can’t identify his present until allthe wrapping is gone, I still couldn’t say what it was, exactly, that hadhappened.

So I stripped myself naked. And suddenly the whole men’s bathroom inthe basement of the Campus Center glowed with a strange soft light, asthough someone had rubbed my eyes
with Vaseline, blurring the edges of the counter, the faucet, the papertowel dispenser, and the stalls, throwing into question where each objectended and the air began in its place. Each of these, I gently stroked,perusing every surface for clues to the change . . . but they had all stayedthe same. 

What had happened was this: I had lit the room like a lantern. I hadilluminated everything near me and whatever I moved away from faded backinto its former dull obscurity; wherever I
went to from anywhere sparkled and, in its own space, was famous.

The realization stunned me: I needed envy the sun no more. This is notto say, however, that I merely emanate light. Rather, my aura has a morecomplex exuberance, whereby all surfaces exposed in my vicinity find themselvesmysteriously and suddenly beautiful. As I stood, that fateful morning,stark naked as a jaybird and glowing in that bathroom, my penis hardenedas I savored my reflection. The reality of my fingers, my hands, my arms,every inch of my skin, my eyelashes, my penis itself had somehow exaggerated,grown into a shimmering and heightened kind of grace, smooth as the surfaceof the ocean. For hours, I played with the clean length of my fingers beforemy eyes, all my senses awash in wonder at my new body’s
power.

The next day, though, I drove home with my parents and freshman yearended. I told them what happened to me but they didn’t react like it wasanything special. I was discouraged. My
old friends, also, didn’t seem to appreciate the new beauty that wastheirs just for their being near me. Quite the opposite, actually; in mynew delicacy and sensitivity, they ignored me, laughed at me, barely tooka word I said seriously, and, sometimes, they even hit me. 

Many nights that summer, tears for Wesleyan drenched my pillow. What,after all, was a precious, yet fragile specimen of tropical flora to do,in a cave of brute primates, but wilt and pray for its proper light andcare?

I wept when I saw my reflection, my porcelain-smooth complexion marredwith bruises and scratches… my "friends," laughing and yelling behind me… 

When fall came, my parched soil grew moist again. And as sophomore yearwent on, my beauty bloomed even further. Each year, in fact, amazed mewith the increasing complexity with
which my flower grew. With the arrival of senior year, I found myselfbefore my mirror more and more, experimenting with lipstick, mascara, andblush, smiling, delighting in the soft, peaceful glow with which my presencehad imbued my toilet, the hair in the shower drain, and the socks on thefloor. 

But graduation is coming. It makes me afraid. Every summer increasedmy loneliness, brought my leaves closer to terminal dryness. It wasn’tlong before I couldn’t face those friends
anymore. The way they looked at me terrified me so, it was like theywanted to slash my roots and rip me out of the ground. After junior year,any time I spent away from here I spent in rooms like this bathroom, alone,with a mirror for me to enjoy myself, my face, my body, my only joy. Itried to eclipse the world with memories of the way Wesleyan sparkled inmy light.

Soon, though, the world is all that I will have. Most of me would preferI remain here, fixed and timeless, trade any 

further growth for a permanent morning in the eyes of future students.I want to be a constellation floating in a sky over Wesleyan alone, anancient plant petrified, my slender arms frozen in the same inviting pose.I know it’s only vanity, but I always want to look like this.

Earlier tonight, I climbed to the top of Olin. I’m looking down overthe edge. Wesleyan is a harsh mistress. She gave me a face that could launcha thousand ships, but what did she ask
for in return? She owes me nothing, yet it is her beauty alone couldever rival mine. The way the trees here blossom in the Spring… Could Igo to an afterlife where I am one of them? I
decided weeks ago to die beautifully, to embrace the void in a single,sweeping gesture, rather than let it insinuate itself into my skin slowlyover years. 

I am a plant whose beauty comes from just one, single plot of soil.Wesleyan. I am a plant whose beauty is its life. What I would be as ananimal is the laughter of the ruthless, carnivorous world. Rather thanwrithe in the stomach of the world… rather than wilt… rather than let themor anyone see me as anything else…

Sorry. I’m losing coherence. You know how self-indulgent I can be. Anyway,I’m walking to the edge now, and when I fall, I’ll die. So, this is mylast column. 

After you graduate, send me a postcard; let me know how you’re doing,because I’ll be in hell.