Time Is Ticking

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Tick tock. Tick tock. All I hear is the clock talking to me as if it had a message to deliver. Tick tock. Tick tock. I glance over to the source of the chatting, and interpret what it has to report to me: 1:38 am.

I crave the feeling of falling asleep, being rested for the life-altering milestone that I am about to be forced to take a part in, but I simply cannot. I am capable of doing nothing but assessing, reflecting about my three-year experience here under the mountain. I tower up in bed, dangle my legs over the side, and plant my feet on my ground. My desk light rotates on, and I haul out a letter that I had written to myself right after I came back from Denmark.

“Denmark was astonishing. Never forget that. But always remember what really enabled you to go study abroad. Berkshire. If you were still living at home, you would have, on no account, gone. Yes, maybe the adjustment back to Berkshire will be challenging, but what part of high school has been painless? Life is about coming across intricate periods and learning how to embark upon them. That is how you become a stronger, more well rounded person. Take coming back to Berkshire for the last four months as a positive thing. You can make it the best or worse that you want. But think about it, before you know it, you will be reading this right before graduation.” I feel tears starting to pour out of my eyes like a volcano that is erupting. My hands start to shake as the paper falls out of my grip.

Tick tock. Tick tock. 2:12 am. I pick the paper up again and start to read on. “The concept of graduation is going to be overwhelming. It will feel as if the past three years of your life have just been ripped out of your heart and thrown into a trashcan. It is over. But think positively. What good will a negative attitude have on you? Nothing. Imagine graduation as your first taste of conquering a major milestone.” I wipe away my tears before they force this letter into becoming a towel rather than a piece of paper. “For the rest of your life, you will continue to learn. You will gain knowledge about hobbies, careers, love, and parenting. Berkshire has provided you with this marvelous opportunity. Be forever grateful of that.” I sit in my chair, staring at the blank walls that once were crowded of pictures of my most valued Berkshire experiences, weeping, judging and reflecting.

My brain struggles to stop assessing the negative phases, but my heart continuously comes back to one inspiration: what I will miss at Berkshire. I decide to scribble my feelings down on a sticky note, a yellow one to be exact. “Nowhere else can I go to a teachers house on a Saturday night to make cookies. Nowhere else can I be forced into study hall six days a week from eight pm to ten pm. Nowhere else can I have to check in by 7:45 most nights while being in bed by 11:00 pm, and nowhere else can I hang out with a teacher until three in the morning.”
Next sticky note, this time blue. “I will never again experience representing Godman throughout dorm wars. I will never again experience my senior prom. I will never again experience a season of squash full of laughter and joy, and I will never again experience the preeminent occasion at Berkshire, Prize Night.”
Third sticky note, green. “I will miss my uncomfortable twin sized bed. I will miss the ridiculous amount of snow that seems to accumulate at Berkshire every year, and I will miss everyone who has made Berkshire so great.”
I heave the last sticky note out of my desk draw, which is colored pink, and sum up my thoughts. “Nowhere else can I grow so much. I will never again experience such a love for a place. I will miss everything about Berkshire, even the undesirable food.”

Tick tock. Tick tock. 2:48 am. After sitting at my desk for a few minutes, I finally decide to get in bed, to terminate this horrible nightmare that I will forever lament. I recall that this is the last instance, which I will ever sleep at Berkshire, and that startles me. I elevate my feet off of the ground, situate my legs onto the bed, and recline down. “Tomorrow is the day,” I whisper to myself before my eyes securely lock for one last nights sleep under the mountain. “Tomorrow is the day.”





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