Memoirs of a Rambling College Student
The draft comes floating in through my window, and I reach for the nearest blanket, roll over, and sigh through a wearied smile. It's another morning, another day of class, another day yet to be made.
And through that window, for the first time in three years, I'm not rejuvenated by the sight of campus walk or Ball Circle or my quick analysis of fellow classmates' outfits to judge the feel of the weather; instead, I see a Fredericksburg church, a strip of townhouses, and a world entirely separate--though so close--from campus. A world I'm not sure if I'm ready to enter or still keep my distance from.
It's funny how quickly nostalgia for the past and acceptance of the future can set in. It's been a mere three weeks for me. Three defining weeks to know that this year will feel different than the rest.
I guess I can chalk it up to the normal mental/emotional progression that hits any college student. Freshman year is marked by fluttering stomachs, new friendships that quickly fill your world, the sweet taste of freedom mixed with the tender blandness of being homesick. You throw yourself into activities, walk around campus, drinking in the sites, notice how the messages on the rock change from day to day, and are amazed by how every meal feels like going out to dinner with a sea of familiar faces and friends. Sophomore year rolls around, and you return to campus, a bit older, a bit wiser, but nevertheless, eager for the same sites, the same friends, that enveloped your life. Some relationships change, some bridges are built, some loves are lost, but, all in all, you're still the same you. The progression hits full force with the arrival of junior year and the acknowledgement that things really aren't the same anymore. The trees outside your window still flower in the spring and are silhouetted by colors in the fall, but yet, for the first time, you forget to notice it all. Your dorm is simply a place you go to sleep, not the place you go for friendships and bonding. And, suddenly, you're aware that freedom is all you want. Freedom from the trees that you're starting to take for granted. Freedom from the relationships that no longer make sense. Freedom from living boxed by rules and the closing in of walls.
And then you're a senior. You have the change you wanted: you already feel rejuvenated by the site of a new tree outside your window instead of the wearied one that's already been etched into your memory. You have the world ready at your feet, just waiting to be awakened to shake your hand in a mere eight months. You detach yourself from the friends and drama that shackled your previous years. And yet, you miss it. You miss it all. You pass the trees, see them as gorgeously stale, and walk away without a second glance. Your thoughts are filled with your senior seminar and how it might play into the job choice you'll be forced to make as soon as the college loan bills start trickling in. But it saddens you. It's not like junior year when the thought of a change empowered you. It's the sudden realization that you changed with your location. Your mentality changed with the view outside your window. And it hurts. All you want to do is run around Ball Circle, giggle like a fool in the stools at the Eagle's Nest. And yet you know you can't. Physically, yes. But mentally only in memories and token bits of nostalgia.
* * *
It's three weeks into the semester.
And I'm already haunted by the past.
Threatened by the future.
Overwhelmed by the present.
And not sure what to do with it all.
I wish I could throw myself into campus life like I once did. Maybe it's worse because in the past two years, I've been forced to grow and mature. Been forced to leave this world of Seacobeck pizzas and brick walkways behind faster than I'd ever have hoped.
I just wish that I won't forget that campus still exists and that I'm still a part of it. And that familiar faces still do file under its canopy of leaves. Because before I know it, I won't be a part of it all anymore. And then I'll really have to accept that this life lives only in my memories.
And through that window, for the first time in three years, I'm not rejuvenated by the sight of campus walk or Ball Circle or my quick analysis of fellow classmates' outfits to judge the feel of the weather; instead, I see a Fredericksburg church, a strip of townhouses, and a world entirely separate--though so close--from campus. A world I'm not sure if I'm ready to enter or still keep my distance from.
It's funny how quickly nostalgia for the past and acceptance of the future can set in. It's been a mere three weeks for me. Three defining weeks to know that this year will feel different than the rest.
I guess I can chalk it up to the normal mental/emotional progression that hits any college student. Freshman year is marked by fluttering stomachs, new friendships that quickly fill your world, the sweet taste of freedom mixed with the tender blandness of being homesick. You throw yourself into activities, walk around campus, drinking in the sites, notice how the messages on the rock change from day to day, and are amazed by how every meal feels like going out to dinner with a sea of familiar faces and friends. Sophomore year rolls around, and you return to campus, a bit older, a bit wiser, but nevertheless, eager for the same sites, the same friends, that enveloped your life. Some relationships change, some bridges are built, some loves are lost, but, all in all, you're still the same you. The progression hits full force with the arrival of junior year and the acknowledgement that things really aren't the same anymore. The trees outside your window still flower in the spring and are silhouetted by colors in the fall, but yet, for the first time, you forget to notice it all. Your dorm is simply a place you go to sleep, not the place you go for friendships and bonding. And, suddenly, you're aware that freedom is all you want. Freedom from the trees that you're starting to take for granted. Freedom from the relationships that no longer make sense. Freedom from living boxed by rules and the closing in of walls.
And then you're a senior. You have the change you wanted: you already feel rejuvenated by the site of a new tree outside your window instead of the wearied one that's already been etched into your memory. You have the world ready at your feet, just waiting to be awakened to shake your hand in a mere eight months. You detach yourself from the friends and drama that shackled your previous years. And yet, you miss it. You miss it all. You pass the trees, see them as gorgeously stale, and walk away without a second glance. Your thoughts are filled with your senior seminar and how it might play into the job choice you'll be forced to make as soon as the college loan bills start trickling in. But it saddens you. It's not like junior year when the thought of a change empowered you. It's the sudden realization that you changed with your location. Your mentality changed with the view outside your window. And it hurts. All you want to do is run around Ball Circle, giggle like a fool in the stools at the Eagle's Nest. And yet you know you can't. Physically, yes. But mentally only in memories and token bits of nostalgia.
* * *
It's three weeks into the semester.
And I'm already haunted by the past.
Threatened by the future.
Overwhelmed by the present.
And not sure what to do with it all.
I wish I could throw myself into campus life like I once did. Maybe it's worse because in the past two years, I've been forced to grow and mature. Been forced to leave this world of Seacobeck pizzas and brick walkways behind faster than I'd ever have hoped.
I just wish that I won't forget that campus still exists and that I'm still a part of it. And that familiar faces still do file under its canopy of leaves. Because before I know it, I won't be a part of it all anymore. And then I'll really have to accept that this life lives only in my memories.