Tired, malnourished and excited, I’m taking a moment to pause from my packing marathon to record my thoughts, sometimes wistful, sometimes excitingly hopeful, and share them with an audience of revered strangers.
Less than 40 hours to go until I find a way to cram all my things into my car and experience for the first time the thrilling independence of driving myself 300 miles back to school.
For the second time I’m leaving behind my room, my home, my town, the tried-and-true remainder of my family and friends, and the welcome soft touch of an adorable stranger-turned-ally. Of the latter’s continued presence upon my return I can’t be sure—I knew I was taking a risk—nor should I take for granted any of these wonderful purveyors of place and security.
Back at school I’ll create poignant memories and resolve annoying predicaments. I’ll immerse myself in the motley sea of familiar faces—some friendly, some egregious, but most somewhere in between—and into the sea of new faces, where I can never be sure which I’ll grow to love, which I’ll grow to hate, and which will inevitably fall somewhere in between. Simultaneously I want to immerse myself in the joys of my major, until it in itself becomes an old but perpetually exciting friend—but one that, given its nature, will never abandon me nor experience the pain of my own infidelity.
Each morning I’ll be wrenched by the shrill beck of my alarm clock, when indescribable drowsiness will beg me to reconsider the value of slumber. But I’ll still get up, because deep-down I’ll know that to do so is to consummate my lifelong efforts and dreams to-date.
And now to finish consolidating my indispensible materials into the array of boxes and suitcases cast before me, fulfill my familial obligations, and replenish my car with fuel for the long trip ahead.
Yes, less than 40 hours to go…