I am reporting to you from within the walls of a seven-story building that boasts a sparingly small number of windows. Those concrete walls lucky enough to hold windows are generally tinted to boot.

It has been two months since I have seen the sun with mine own eyes.

Not only will I incur the deadly wrath of a teacher due tenure if I am not within these walls by five minutes prior to 8 a.m., but I will be expected to stay here well into the night. It may very well be past midnight. The automatic lights will have likely turned off and I'll be forced to use my night vision to view the endless pages of sheet music that seem to have their own eery glow.

Perhaps this is caused by the inordinate number of high 'G's Schubert has placed in this aria. Perhaps it's simply that my tears have grown radioactive after eating too much generic "potato soup" from the in-house eatery and said tears have soaked said sheet music to the point of possible combustion.

Days start in the dark. End in the dark.

Start with a crushed granola bar that has been in my backpack for weeks. End with my begging the in-house eatery to give me one pre-boiled egg that they have displayed in a cardboard box that seems to audibly taunt my war-torn stomach past closing time (I can feel the stress-induced reflux setting in — hopefully, it won't be too detrimental to my vocal chords as I have daily graded performances).

It begins with an ill-tempered teacher. It ends with an all-too cheery conductor who inexplicably expects you to do weird things with your hands.

Starts with an IV of caffeine. Finals out with about three tablets of Melatonin.

Opens with tears. Closes with the apathy, disconnection and general glaze that comes with being too tired to cry. Besides, you need the water to coat those chords overnight.

A typical day. I wake up shortly before my alarm goes off; it's as if my inner demons know what is to come and they wish me to be prepared. Sad, I know, that I must enlist the support of demons, but we must learn to take help wherever we can get it. Roll out of bed. Slump to the floor. Put on glasses and turn on the light. It's blinding.

I stumble to the bathroom. I stumble back to the bedroom. I put on a nice outfit because I have to. It either involves dress pants or a knee and shoulder covering performance-grade ensemble. There is no in-between. I am a music major, and we dress the part. I comb my hair. I grab my backpack. Within the backpack, I place four textbooks, two binders, a laptop, and it's cord. I will not be back to my room today, and if my tech dies, so goes my nation. I begin humming — my voice must begin to warm if I expect it to work by 8:30.

An apple makes it to my mouth if I am lucky. I find the energy to speed walk to class. I climb four incredibly steep flights, take a sip of tear-infused water and walk into my first class, still out of breath. Not sure if I am out of breath from walking too many flights at too fast a pace, or if I'm beginning to hyperventilate because I'm expected to do an improvisatory self-accompaniment by ear this morning.

The first class passes by. Though I still feel the vestiges of slumber lingering upon my skin, it is evident that this first class will be the fastest of the day. I continue sitting in the classroom during the passing period, as my next few classes are, in fact, in this same room. I switch desks to enliven my morning.

I move to a different classroom which is approximately three feet from the first one. It is time for lunch. I have fifteen minutes to get something from the Bistro upstairs. I will not be leaving this building for the foreseeable future. I get a salad because the hot food line is too long. I run back downstairs and make it to the next class in the nick of time.

As I begin to eat my dry salad, I am told that I can not have food near the keyboards as we are working in the computer lab. I close my salad for later when it will have inevitably grown unbearably soggy. I turn on my computer and keyboard. I open the dreaded Finale software. It is time to write music.

Does this sound fun to you? I can not remember a time when songwriting was fun. I recognize vague glimmers of a time when I could simply play a chord on my guitar and then spew up notes. It did not matter back then what key it was in. It did not matter what the tempo or time signature was. The note lengths were of no consequence. The slurs, fermatas, railroad tracks, repeats, accents, breath marks, crescendos, smorzandos, rests and 32nd notes stare up at me mockingly. It's as if they know I don't want to do this. Sadly, they also know that the finished product will be worthwhile. I will have created a beautiful product. I press the playback button. The tenor part sounds heinous to my already buzzing ears.

It is finally time for my hour break before the next class. We all know what we must do in this hour. Not eat. Not sleep. Not let myself of bodily fluids. It is time to practice.

I begin the hunt.

I am looking for a medium-sized room. I need to be able to swing my guitar around without fear of scarring. I need to be able to stand every fifteen minutes to stretch my legs. I need a room with a piano in it. Finding a piano that has been recently tuned and has all of the keys and pedals working at full capacity is an added difficulty.

I do not need a grand piano. I do not need a harpsichord.

I do however need a mirror. I need soundproofing. I need a room with the technical options that will allow me to alter the acoustics of the room so that I might practice within a chapel or concert hall. I need a room with a music stand. A room with a chair. A room that does not have too large a window for the average curious passerby to see me struggle. I need a room that is out of the way, but still accessible and close to a bathroom. I need to rest.

I finally find a room that meets all of my requirements. I must check the room's schedule to ensure that no one has reserved it; that no unsuspecting bassoon lesson is meant to take place in this sacred place. I place my backpack in the room as an unspoken reservation once I am cleared for landing. Before I begin, I go to my lockers. I have two. Many of my peers have far more, spanning across several different floors. One locker holds my guitar. The other holds my books. Once locked in the practice room, I begin.

Someone walks by my room. They inform me that I cannot have my salad in the practice room. I am not even eating it. They tell me I cannot place my binder on the piano. I remove it, properly chastised. They remind me that if I choose to go to the bathroom, I am forfeiting my hold upon the room. Hence my choosing one close to such provisions.

It is time to go back to class. My classes continue on for the rest of the day. They pass by in a blur, yet they seem to take an eternity. Class ends, homework ensues, and eventually, my evening activities begin — all of which remain in this building. At long last, I am released.

I step outside and breathe in the fresh night air. I walk home. I sleep. I awake. I sleep. It seems that it will never end. Until that fated day arrives - Friday. We get out at 5 rather than 10. We take a few hours to be alone, as we have just spent all of our days in close proximity with a large number of the same faces. We then reconvene at 10. It is time to party. You may not have heard this before, but there is no one who can party quite as heartily as a music major who has finally been freed from their weekly chains.

I sleep in until 2 the next day. I can go to the gym. I can cook myself a meal. I can go to the grocery, I can watch a movie, I can speak to people who aren't music majors. I can attend a meeting for a club, committee, service or society that is not related to music. I can take a nap. I can do my homework. I can sleep in again. I can do more homework. More meetings. I can then realize that I actually want to go back to class. I miss the music.