Written by Ella Astbury
Art by Greta Scheff
We all know what’s to come. Not in terms of a real job, with real money, or a real apartment that isn’t partially funded by our parents. All of that still seems like too much to fathom. But we’re all prepared to feel a sense of ennui.
The logical thing to do would be to cherish my loved ones, relish in the comfort and familiarity that Burlington, Vermont, brings me, and relax. Just relax. I’m going to graduate. I have to relax. Yet, the knowledge that I’m running out of time follows me to the bar, to the gym, to the coffee shop that I have to sit in twice a week to get my homework done. It’s a constant reminder; a nagging, grating omen that looms over my head.
You can’t enjoy this, it’s almost over!
I feel trapped. I feel sad constantly. Music doesn’t sound the same, and every song reminds me of a time in the past four years, as though my entire life started the day I moved into Bankus Hall. In many ways, it did. My life started when I drunkenly argued with my freshman year RA in a promiscuous fairy costume on Halloween. When I died my hair paintbox red on a whim (and subsequently, my white pillowcases). When I realized that I was in love. When I wasn’t afraid to be looked at, perceived, touched, understood.
I only think about high school on occasion. I think about getting into shoegaze and fucked up movies. I think about the absurdity of having a black-tie funeral for a duck named Gilbert. I think about abuse, and what that means, and how clueless I truly was. I had no idea.
Do I know more now than I knew then? It’s hard to say. I have more experience, for sure. But it’s hard to appreciate these experiences when I know I will grieve them forever and ever. Nostalgia will creep up on me, and years down the line, I will probably realize I haven’t thought about college in a while. Just as in the present, I realize that I haven’t thought about high school in a while.
People say life is short, but it’s actually really long. I’m scared, but I’m tired of being scared. I’m tired of the weight of everything I’ve ever done and everyone I’ve ever known. I crave somewhere new, but getting there seems like more effort than it’s worth.
The reality is that I don’t have a choice. I’ve built a life, and I must keep building it. Even when it hurts, even when I fear the “good old days” are over, even when I have to rock myself to sleep at night, yearning for a love that makes sense geographically.
“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” Some guy said that. Perhaps I will learn to be my own friend. Perhaps I will have a dachshund that vaguely resembles me. We will live in a big city, paying big bills, doing big things. But for now, I will pack up all my worldly possessions at the last possible second, and I won’t look back. I’ve spent a good chunk of my life crying on public transportation. This will be no exception. I will cry until it doesn’t hurt anymore, or at least until I can’t remember what this specific kind of pain feels like.
In 10 years, I’ll have something else to mourn.