The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

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To wax poetic...

Herein lies conclusions regarding my summer and subsequent existence as a senior:

I feel like there should be some grand resolution to this summer. A moment of sheer epiphany that makes much of the stress and toil click into the ever-enlightening role that is me. Yet, as I cast a backward glance I see the horizon sprawling above a steep cliff. Ahead, an ever lengthening grade with only the faint wisp of clouds to see, infinity hiding the end of my climb. Surprising, low and behold, is my generally upbeat demeanor that has crack the savage lines of intense study plastered herein from the last months. Lo, I see people before me and they are as happy to see me as I them. Truly, my world has coalesced into a strange morass of delight and rainbow laughter.

Quite a few times in the last few days I heard "I missed you" said with such chuckling sincerity that I was to be found both dumbfounded and blushing. To those who said such things, I thank you for reminding me that I'm not the troll I sometimes feel. This year will be goodly spent erecting stronger relations with those I call friend.

Class, amount notwithstanding, shan't be a cakewalk but a good challenge that I aim to tackle with relish and zest. Though mounting that gargantuan steed provides a serious deed, I will indeed succeed as I have before in tasks similar in magnitude. I was rather surprised both by the dearth of free time and grandiose occurence of pockets of free time. Perchance I see nestled in between moments of breath a chance to attend my studies? A ghastly prospect, I know; but as real as a the warm summer wind we have all experienced today.

Tomorrow shall be a tragic day, beginning at a time far sooner than any college student is cognizant. Pray for me so that my lecturers perform their tasks with a zany disregard for properness and dignity so that I may remain awake to benefit from their greater knowledge lest my efforts for the future are wasted.

Contentment creeps my spine knowing that this eve'n purports good tidings of the end of my travail. No more Pearson's, no more monotony. No more bosses forgetting what is happening and when. No more colleagues talking down to me with lupine locution such that my passions, absent of sordid depths, stir in my belly. No more colleagues abdicating their post at the key times that I shall have to work with equine devotion. No more. But, no more monetary recompense. That I may miss, but I would have nary a thought of this job again. As much as I adore my giddy superior, as much as she dotes upon me, I shan't return this semester.

This is my past, my future. Tis never as bad as we think, never remembered as painful as it was. Humans have a terrible memory for pain. In two weeks, maybe even one, this summer shall be a relic of glorious achievement that I would give organs to repeat. Better that way, I suppose. All the easier to leap into the coming mist without a solitary worry.

-William James Ringland III
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