We are individuals on this Earth, six billion strong, each possessing a life no more or less great than the any other. Yet over the past several thousand years, we have developed the ability to form connections to one another, connections in the form of families, communities, civilizations. With this ability, we transcend our individuality and spread intricate webs amongst one another.

And with that we have learned love and empathy. We have learned to care for individuals beyond the unconditional and to place another’s well-being before our own. We have become stronger and smarter by coming together and working together. As a species, we have conquered Earth by sharing.

Yet at the center of it all lies our individuality. At this very second, tens of thousands of people are waking up in the morning while thousands others slip into sleep. Several thousand more are eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Others are walking, driving, swimming, talking, listening, flying, sailing. Our hearts are beating, our minds are working, our bodies are living.

But everyone is thinking something different. Each individual has his own goals, ambitions and desires. No two individuals share the same set of memories, thoughts, and connections. No two individuals share the same life experience. And so, ultimately, despite the gains we achieve by coming together, we are still individuals, unique in every way.

It really is beautiful. 6.7 billion people on this Earth, yet each of them so starkly unique. Every single person has a story to tell, a picture to paint, a song to sing. Together, every individual heart beat adds to the symphony of human life.

And yet there exists individuals who purposefully extinguish the lives of others. To abruptly and meaninglessly end another’s song and story is beyond cruel. It is unforgivable.

I didn’t know Annie Le, but I now know her story. We all know her story. And as corny as it sounds, she will live on in our hearts. Her killer sought to end her existence, but he only amplified her beyond life. He sought to bury and hide her in the ceiling and in the walls, but he failed.

Tonight, in the light of a thousand flickering candles, Yale showed that Annie will not be forgotten. Her life was extinguished, but her memory will not. And so, her killer has failed.

I only wish that there was peace. What does it take to achieve that?

My first steps on this adventure were rather timid. Awkward hellos and hi-my-name-is-Tim’s were the theme of the morning when the FPC freshman gathered in Old Campus for the first time. Yet by the time we returned to Yale two days later, I had friends, a few of whom I anticipate will be familiar faces for the rest of my life.

To say the least, FPC gave me the confidence to introduce myself and to smile. And, of course to introduce myself again, after I had forgotten his name. The two days I spent at Camp Awosting truly represented a great prelude to Yale and its experience. But I cannot forget its most important lesson: that my roommate from Texas did not have a southern accent – and that this was normal for Yalies from the south.

The first month of school was, and, in my mind, still is a blur. I met people from different organizations and through different people. I spent time with some friends, then promptly abandoned them for other friends. It was truly a strange period of unrest during which I never stopped to think. I plowed forward, forgoing books for friendship, sleep for fun. My closest friends remained my closest friends, yet everyone else shuffled around me. I had forsaken my friends back home, caught up in this whirlwind of novelty and excitement. Yet, as fate would have it, all the disparate threads I sewed in that first month would interweave in short order.

If I had to pick the single moment that turned the page, it was a late night in early October. Myself and a few friends watched “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” and then we talked. And talked. And after that, I settled. I found a group of friends with whom I could laugh, with whom I could be stupid, and with whom I could just relax and have fun. Then time began to fly.

At this point, I reconnected with high school friends, and the semester continued at a rapid clip. Looking back, all I remember is fun moments, great conversations, and, unfortunately, several late nights at the library. Nonetheless, I was comfortable and happy.

Of course, over the semester, there were a few down moments. I am certainly not proud of a few decisions, yet I realize that each one, each wrong decision, is but another block to build upon. And I don’t regret those moments. I don’t regret, for example, the nights I spent hanging out with friends instead of studying for that midterm. I don’t regret any decision that turned out poorly in the rear-view mirror because I learned.

And so here I am, a semester done. From FPC to late-night talks to partying to turning eighteen to The (freezing) Game to reading week and finals – it’s been a long three-and-half-months, yet I feel like it’s gone by in the blink of an eye. I’ve learned about myself, and learned about what’s truly important to me, but fundamentally, I am the same curious little boy I was before this all began.

So, past all the self-discovery, all the lessons learned and mistakes made, I can only count one real epiphany. The primary reason why I love Yale so much is not the history or the grandeur, not the beautiful campus or the wonderful residential colleges; no, the first and foremost reason why I love Yale so much is the friends and peers that embody its ideals, and who have made this first semester one of the best three-and-a-half months of my life.

Here’s to three-and-a-half more years.

After my Literature section in Harkness Hall, I have half an hour to walk half a mile to my faculty advisor’s office. I’ve heard that he’s a nice guy, so I’m looking forward to this meeting. Afterwards I have only fifteen minutes to return to where I was, for an Economics Discussion Section in Harkness Hall. From there, I go straight to Linsly-Chittenden Hall on Old Campus, where, at the Maya event, I’ll grab my pizza dinner. If I’m still hungry, I can grab a quick bite back in the suite before heading off to the Yale Daily News building for the journalism training workshop.

I’ll have to leave that one slightly earlier in order to make my way to Payne Whitney Gym for Intramural Table Tennis. After that, I finally get a breather back in the suite, before heading over to Phelps Gate for a two-hour long game of Frisbee Golf with the YPMB. When that’s done, or before then, I’ll collapse somewhere near the vicinity of my bed and sleep until 9.

Why does everyone schedule everything on the same date?

Sitting down for breakfast in Branford’s Dining Room, I’m surrounded by the smiling façades of the former Masters, illuminated by several chandaliers hanging from an arching ceiling covered with dark, rich wood. I then take a walk across Cross Campus, the rather large and imposingly stunning Sterling Memorial Library to my left, and the bustle of construction on Calhoun College to my left. A few large trees provide a pleasant shade from the hot morning sun, and their gentle swaying adds a symphonic element to the soundtrack of footsteps and conversations. There’s a few boys playing a quick game of two-hand touch on the grass in front of Sterling.

As I approach Commons, there’s a modern sculpture and a much older-looking memorial. Its gold-gilded inscription is clear even from a distance. “In memory of the men of Yale, who, true to her traditions, gave their lives that Freedom might not perish from the Earth,” it reads, along with a date attributing the memorial to the brave men who fought in World War I. I enter the rotunda, a beautiful domed vestibule with a rich blue ceiling from which are hung many more chandeliers. I pay little attention to the inscriptions on the wall, the names of every Yale student who gave his life in defense of his country. The moment of tranquility is broken quickly as I exit the rotunda and face the busy corner of Grove and College Street. Dozens of students race across the wide intersection as drivers wait patiently for an opening to continue.

A short walk later, I find myself reaching into my backpack for my notebook and laptop. Davies Auditorium is a large, modern lecture hall with comfortable, cushioned chairs and small retrievable platforms for note-taking. Professor Mark Johnson takes the floor and takes us through the beginning of modern chemistry, from Lavoisier to Newton to Dalton. He lectures with energy and humor. There must be over a hundred students sitting in the lecture hall, but it’s to be expected for General Chemistry.

After class is dismissed, I walk down College Street back to Vanderbilt Hall, my version of home at Yale. I have a moment of solitude at my desk as I organize my notebooks and peruse the news. Nobody liked McCain’s speech. The Mets won. Soon, I get a call from a friend, inviting me to lunch. I accept and leave Vanderbilt, nearly forgetting my keys on my desk. I briskly walk across Old Campus, under towering trees swaying and rustling to what seems like a perpetual wind. A few minutes later, I’m surrounded by chaos: lunch at Commons. I manage to make myself a sandwich and grab some yogurt before sitting down with a few friends. I have gotten over the majesty of the cafeteria. I no longer wonder if this is what Harry Potter sat down to everyday at Hogwarts.

After lunch is Introductory Microeconomics with Steve Berry. The lecture hall is absolutely packed. He’s a brilliant man and a wonderful professor. He mixes his own brand of humor and irony into a lecture introducing us to the basic concepts of economics and, specifically, microeconomics. It’s enjoyable, but I harbor a secret hope that some people decide not to show up next time.

Next thing I know, I’m walking down Elm Street with another friend, empty backpack in hand, towards the Barnes & Nobles that serves as the University’s bookstore. Minutes later, I emerge with a strained back and 400 dollars poorer. I figure that it’s the price we pay for education. We visit a mutual friend in Swing Space. We pass by the club soccer team practicing on a patch of grass, shaded by more rustling trees. Swing Space is far away from the center of campus, but it’s air conditioned, has an elevator, and each room has a little kitchenette. It feels comfortable, and the Calhoun upperclassmen don’t mind it. We stay for an hour or so, before heading back to Commons for dinner.

This time, we’re there early and the place is deserted. There are many portraits lining Commons, all but one with dark backgrounds and old men with an array of facial expressions. The only one with a light background is George H. W. Bush. The dinner is rather delicious: turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy. I get some yogurt again.

Slowly, night falls over New Haven. I spend some time in my suite, deciding between studying and watching TV. I end up doing neither, and heading over to a friend’s suite to hang out. We talk about what classes we’re shopping, what homework we have, and just have random conversations about random things. I meet friends of friends who become new friends. We relax in rooms, all of us not eager to begin doing the ever-increasing pile of homework. There’s a party in a suite upstairs. It’s crowded and hot, but we stay anyway to socialize.

Almost without realizing, it’s 1 AM and I’m outside of Lawrence Hall with a few friends. They say they’re hungry. I agree. Ignoring the effects to our health and our weight, we make the short journey to Yorkside pizza. It’s almost closing, but we each get some slices anyway. It’s good, but not as good as A-1 pizza.

A few minutes later, I’m alone in a shower, washing off the day in preparation for the next. I try not to wake up my sleeping roommate as I remove my contacts and prepare my cell phone alarm. As I lay in my bed, staring up at a ceiling I can’t see, I reflect on the day that just passed. I don’t consider what mark I may leave on this 300-year-old university. I don’t consider what mark it may leave on me. Rather, I just sit and appreciate the wondrous beauty of a campus and a university I have just begun to explore.