One hundred seventy-eight days molds itself into an ominous pathway prepared to catapult us into the rest of our lives. I would like to say I will make some wondrous mark, an impact at WHS never to be forgotten. It isn’t true. In reality, I don’t care. In reality, it all boils down to those 178 days. I have had plenty of time for the ups, downs, smiles and frowns in the past three years. Everybody acts like high school is supposed to be this joyous, memorable process of learning and achieving but really it’s about growing and deceiving. Trying to figure out who you are, all the while maintaining a brave face for the outside world.
I have little sentimentality for this town, but an abundance for a few people in it. Those few people who were let in, saw behind the mask and removed theirs too. The same people who saved my life and never tire of pulling me back up from rock bottom to solid ground. I picture this year and I’m scared. Scared of messing up yet again, of needing to be saved yet again. After these 178 days expire, I will be forced to stand on my own. Each one of us will go in separate directions, saying we will call and write, but only time can attest to the validity of such promises.
My deepest fear: What if my own legs aren’t strong enough? In this year, I must complete the formidable senior project, raise my grades, join more clubs, get a job, do anything and everything to piece my life back together. And supposing I survive, what do I have to look forward to? Ahead of me lie exceedingly more difficult curriculum and the pressure of adjusting to life on my own in a foreign city. Senior year will prove or disprove whether the puzzle of my life can ever me made whole once more.
This is what I am to expect from the months ahead. I am anxious to finally be done and yet frightened of the answer that comes with its completion. For on this ride of faith, I am merely a helpless passenger awaiting either my inevitable failure or my fated success. And this car has no brakes.