Most people most likely know the feeling I’m about to explain; you’re reading a good book. It’s had its ups and downs—a lot of them so far. You’ve screamed inwardly at the main character, cried with them and laughed too. Now, they’ve overcome this huge hurdle and there’s a lifetime, almost, of relief rolling from both of your shoulders. What’s been implied to come is going to be damn good, and you begin to turn that next page- but the chapter is up. And, when you look up, it’s actually darker that you remember it being.
You could turn the page and begin that next chapter, or you could snuggle up ‘neath your covers, smack those pillows into pliancy, and sleep for now. You could read that next part tomorrow.
I’m there, I think.
I finished what I suppose is about 14 years of education yesterday.
My A2 Media Studies exam began at ten past nine, and finished ten past eleven. [It went alright, thanks.] Afterwards, I felt a little at a loss. I lingered in sixth form, stuck between wanting to go home and be dull, or soak it all up a bit more. I’ve been told time and time again that I’m going to miss it all, and I don’t doubt that for a second. I loved it—bittersweet.
Had anyone been closely watching me on the bus journey home, they’d probably have labelled me a nutjob with the amount of times I was drifting in and out of my thoughts with a maddening smile that would come and go at intervals. Other than jiving inwardly to the Jhameel tunes my phone’s music player was generously offering me, I was moving between an intense happiness at being done, quite unbelievably, and deep thoughtfulness concerning what was to come next. I was also, I am ashamed to say, trying to think of something very clever and insightful to put as my Facebook status—which, up until now, remains un-updated.
It’s a milestone. I’ve come this far. Made a heck of a lot of bad choices, and some pretty good ones too. But what’s done is now done. As my mum recently told me in congratulations, I’m basically a Uni student now.
Honestly speaking, this whole thing is probably an over-pretentious overreaction of overthought. It’ll be like waking up on my eighteenth birthday expecting to have a renewed sense of self and a lack of the desire to flip my finger up at my sister and/or stick my tongue out when I don’t win the argument or get the last word in.
It is very possible that nothing will change.
I still love to learn and discover more than anything, (the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake and all that), and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I still suffer from crippling social anxiety on occasion and converse with strangers with ease on others. Heck, I’ll probably still always hole up in my room with a bowl of cereal and an indie movie, forget to eat for whole days as I draw nonsense comics and no way will I keep to the daily morning run I’m convincing myself to start up again this September, but with all these old habits of mine, new will come. And, though I’m no scientist, I think I do remember that mixing two substances will often create something beautifully new, exciting and explosive.
So, I’ll go to bed for now. And I can wake up excited about the new chapter that will be revealed to me tomorrow.