The future rests in my notebook

The professor is caught in traffic. My seat mate is caught in traffic. I am caught in traffic. One after another, inch by inch, we follow. No one knows anybody.

Illustration By: (Hannah Arabella Gabling // The Underground)

The ceremony was saccharine with excitement and the smell of something new. With an arm around a friend, I threw my cap up into the air, watching it spin up to the ceiling. Laughing, crashing into one another, we searched for our caps. There was fresh cherry juice at the snack bar. My friends and I had three cups before the teacher near the table frowned at us one last time. 

The summer in between. My friends were having fun. I wasn’t. What in the world was I doing? Straddling a discontent for everything around me and an excitement for life, shaking in a breezy confusion about what would happen to me. My 18th came and went, unnoticed. I hate being in between things. For the first time, I’m not thinking about returning to school. Where will I go if I’ve got nowhere to return to? I miss the old hallways, I want to go back. I want to return to my locker, stand in front of it one more time before I lose it. And I didn’t even start yet…

I’m caught up–

Move.

In a rush of people–

Move!

I don’t know–

MOVE! 

I keep walking with the mass. 

The lecture hall synonymizes me with a hundred others. I miss the teacher that would say ‘Mornin’ Everyone!’ to start the day. The professor is caught in traffic. My seat mate is caught in traffic. I am caught in traffic. One after another, inch by inch, we follow. No one knows anybody. It reminds me of walking to class with the crowd, crossing the street with the crowd, everybody, together, going to the same place, not knowing each other’s faces. 

Go! 

The street sign flashes. My bus takes off before I set foot on the road. I want to call my friend to rant. She won’t pick up. 

Go!

The lady behind the counter at Tim Hortons knows me now. The girl who sits beside me every week still gets my name wrong. This morning my parents said I’m wasting my time with this degree. There’s no one in class who’s shoulder I can rest on. 

Go! 

I fade into the background. But I’m walking. I keep walking to nowhere. This is not a destination. University is no place to stop. 

It's not terrible. It’s a privilege. Just a tiring one. I love my work. I love this weather. I disagree with my parents. But it’s okay. I love university. I also love my friends. I also love conversations. I also love people. I also love pausing. I also love community. University is a place without interiority. Community. Connection. It's a pit stop where everyone arrives only to move. Move! MOVE! 

I’m here to build. 

Build the future.

FUTURE. 

It weighs on me, the board in front of the large hall rests on my shoulders, the professor’s voice booms in my brain, I don't know what I’m noting down right now. I know nobody here. I cannot stop to understand people. I cannot stop to understand me. I do this for the future. I give, give, give it up. Future. The future rests in my notebook. And I am tired of writing it out.