The student services representative at the registrar’s office is a rotund, jolly woman who seems to be hard-wired to radiate a lack of apprehension. ‘Sibyl’ as her name tag reads, like the others present, has a ground floor office where she facilitates the logistics of youthful potential of those attending Castle. When sitting with Sibyl, you’re more than just a number in a lecture hall; she can see into each file, each subtle trend. She is there to help you make sense of the complexities between ignorance and knowledge.
The Registrar’s Office is also where you go to pay.
“Well, Eugene, I didn’t suspect that I would find anything wrong, but things all look good. Provided that you pass all your courses you are all prepared to graduate. I have your robe information so...I think that’s it. Just pay the graduation fees sometime between now and when you go to pick up your robe.”
Eugene nods like something has just changed. He doesn’t think it has. He will graduate middle of the pack. He will get some disappointing job. Maybe a janitor. Things will happen, him living westward of creation.
“Eugene don’t be afraid to smile, either. You look like you are caught up in the dire. Are you always so...” she smiles slightly, laughing a little. “...so serious?”
This elicits something in the young man, and a quick small smile is the end result. “I’m sorry.” He shrugs slightly, glancing past the woman through her office window to the courtyard. There is a horse out there, calming walking along the path. “I’m just sort of preoccupied.”
“What class?”
“No, this is extra-curricular. I am trying to write a story.”
“I like stories.”
“But this is all just a story, you know?” The student motions around the room. This room. “It’s all just words, but there is something more than this. You catch a glimpse of it, and you try and write it down, or convey it to someone, but you can’t.”
Sibyl pauses with this, unsure of what to say.
“...And then you come to the realization that you probably never will. It’s impossible, except in sparse instances of fleeting.”
“What about love?”
“I’m talking about love.”
“Oh, Eugene, love is everywhere, but do not try and understand it. You will not succeed.”
“Then what is the point of art?”
“To confound the mystery.” She laughs at this, and part of Eugene wants to as well. “Life is short. I see a lot of kids --especially in this place-- who, you know, they sort of let knowledge sour them.”
“Which knowledge?”
“No, I mean just...knowledge.” She trails off deliberately, making a couple final keystrokes into the computer. “Alright, we’re all done.” Her smile is unfaltering, and she points to the glass jar on her desk filled with treats. “Would you like a sucker?”
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