For Every Year

For every year that I’ve left these white dorm halls for a Thanksgiving weekend away, I’ve come back in Sunday night, and I’ve written for you.

And for me.

I’ll not go back, not look back and see, right now, but there’s an element of motion, of momentum, of clarity and confusion and unsettledness that I’ve felt before, on these late November Sunday nights.

There is still momentum, movement, this year, but I don’t feel the turmoil, the burnout, the ache to be done, quite like I have in the past.

I suppose this is because I have two more weeks left.

Two more weeks of living the life I’ve known for three and a half years.

Two more weeks of being an on-campus student.

Two more weeks of taking classes.

There are many, many other things of which I only have two weeks, but I’ll not list them here; you can imagine.

And the whole thing- this whole thing called ending is feeling very big and very vague and rather vaporously elusive at the moment. I just can’t wrap my head around it, and because I can’t imagine being done, I can’t seem to prepare for it, either.

So I suppose the best thing to do is to go to bed, to get up, to do all the things I normally do on my long, stretching Mondays, and with every thing I do, I’ll do it the very best with the very most eye towards the long future before me, towards what might be meaningful.

And I’ll just keep doing the days like that, with intention and effort and zeal, and slowly, maybe it will all come into focus, it will all make sense.

And then I’ll know, I’ll realize, I’ll really believe, that my time here is just about over,

And another thing is coming soon.



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