Page 5 - Horizon 18-19

First Impressions are Everything
It stings my nostrils—the air. That’s how clean it is. A glance to my left and right leaves me unimpressed; it’s dark, not dingy, per say, but there’s a small closeness about it that reminds me almost of a closet—a closet in a basement that has only one stray ray of light illuminating a sliver of wall from the cracked, dusty window set into the door at the top of the rotting staircase. But then, as if attracted by a magnet, my eyes are drawn forward and my feet propel me toward the atrium. And that’s where the show really begins.
The ceiling lays flat high above me, bucketfuls of light pouring down on me. I feel like I do after I step out of a movie theater after a daytime showing: blinded, disoriented, and just a little bit out out of place. But in the case of the art museum, it’s more than a little.
My sister’s faded school t-shirt from five years ago; graying, paint-stained pants from my theology project last period; flyaway hair on full display with my hair thrown up into a hasty ponytail.
Not exactly picture-perfect.
Morgan Garan '20
A Subtle Way to Brag
“Wish you were here!” Such a boastful sentence. You don’t wish I was there, you just wanted to point out that you are there and I’m not. I throw the disgusting postcard onto my desk. I hate postcards. They’re intentions are good, but it just points out the obvious fact that I am not at the Coliseum; I am not in Rome. I am not able to enjoy one of the man-made wonders of the world. I don’t send postcards of my run down apartment in Detroit. You know why? Because Detroit isn’t a place where people would want to send a postcard from.
Ugh. Postcards. Such a backhand insult. Such a subtle way to brag about where you are with a stupid comment like, “Wish you were here!”
Madeline Dougherty '20
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