This column started just as so many did—with a blank screen, a blinking cursor, and the lack of motivation to shuffle through my feelings in search of the ones I want to write down. I find a strange comfort in the fact that, for four years, that has not changed. No matter what, I’ve had this doc, this cursor, and a strong lack of motivation.
But I can’t find comfort in the fact that this is the last time.
For the last four weeks, I’ve thought that writing this would bring me a sense of relief—that feeling that I’ve finally accomplished everything that I wanted to. I’ve thought that this would be easy to do, and that I’d be able to put this chapter behind me.
But it’s not.
All I feel is the itch creeping up my spine at the idea that this might be the last time I ever do this. Because when I have nowhere to put how I feel, how is anyone going to read it? When I have no purpose behind each word I type, am I still going to want to write them?
I’m coming to the realization that maybe this was only supposed to be one chapter of my life. Maybe I’m not supposed to write it all down forever. Maybe my time has come to an end, and maybe these are meant to be the last words I write.
That doesn’t make the itch go away.
Maybe it never will.
I have a feeling I’ll always long to write out my emotions with the hope that someone out there is reading them. That someone out there cares. I’ll always long to make aesthetic photo collages for my cover photo, and I’ll always long to use poetic words that make people question whether or not they truly know what I’m saying.
But whether I long for it or not, I know that this is the end. I know that after hitting submit on this story, or the next, or even the next, I’ll be done. Eventually, it will end.
I can’t be 17 years old and write for the same newspaper forever. I have to leave it all in my past. But I’m not ready to lose the comfort that I’ve gained from this paper, from this room, or from these people.
I’m not ready to lose the air that always seems to flow back into my lungs as soon as I step through the door. What if I suffocate without it?
I’m not ready to lose the warmth that seeps into my bones when I see the smiles that are sent my way. What if I freeze without them?
I’m not ready to say goodbye. But even if I write one more time, if I pour it all out one more time, eventually it will be the last time.
And that thought leaves me with an itch up my spine.
