Dear Whitman,

I’m in love with Styx. Not the band. Not the river of the underworld. No, I’m talking about Styx, the tall, equestrian metal statue that looms near the science building. Yes, the same one that looks like the lovechild of a coat rack and a robot horse.

It started out as a joke. I’d walk past Styx on my way to class, and we’d make eye contact—well, I’d make eye contact. Styx, being a statue, doesn’t exactly reciprocate. But there’s something calming about those cold, twisted limbs and that blank, metallic stare. Styx doesn’t care that I’m three assignments behind or that I’ve ghosted my academic advisor. Styx is just there, unbothered, standing firm like a silent sentinel of the phrase “figure it out.”

The thing about Styx is that they get me. Styx is the embodiment of my college experience: a little awkward, sometimes structurally unsound, and probably misunderstood by most people (we’re different from other girls). Styx, like me, was created with good intentions but now just stands there, kind of confused and uncertain about its purpose. It’s a relatable energy. Some people walk by and think, “Wow, that’s modern art.” Others think, “Is this an elaborate prank? Did the art department run out of ideas?” And I’m like, “Yeah, that’s basically how my professors feel about me, too.”

I’ve come to admire their resilience. Sure, they’ve seen things. Weird things. People have climbed onto it in various states of nudity, but Styx stays strong. They stand tall. Styx doesn’t fall apart under pressure, unlike me when I forgot to send in this article to my editor on time (sorry Carmel). 

So yeah, I’m in love with Styx. If I had half the confidence of that statue, I’d be unstoppable. Until then, Styx and I will continue our unspoken bond of quiet suffering and existential dread. 

Sincerely,

Arham (not a furry)