It's senior year. Second semester. If someone had told me three years ago that I would make it to this point, I would have politely said, "No, I don't think so." When people ask me now how I feel about having made it to this point, my response is never with words, but with fists clenched or watery eyes, and often a long groan of dismay. The words force their way out, though, usually saying,"It's hard."
And it is: I have no idea what I am doing. I didn't know what I was doing when I first came to register for classes, and minus the fact that I will leave with a Writing degree, I still don't know that I have come to any better conclusions.
What I do know is that I will leave with friendships that have, over time, marked these years. Some have already been crossed out or walked over. But some have managed to cause an indent. Some are very large potholes, the kind of potholes I keep falling into no matter how often I try to pass. They are just there, so firmly dug into my life that I can't escape them. Often, I don't want to.
College is a pothole. College is a ditch that I will soon have to cross over. Perhaps the bridge will be made of my memories, the ones that will carry me for the rest of this life. Tonight, after a family dinner with new friends, I dedicated some head space to old friends, looked forward to future friends. And in the meantime, enjoyed another addition to this stockpile I have of the people I have known and loved during these four years.
