This is Neverland

I am repressing the knowledge that in one week half of my possessions will be at home and the other half in the back a car sitting in Brit’s driveway. I will be laughing with friends, celebrating the successful conclusion of my education.

But then after the guests have gone and inevitability sets in, I will drive home. Perhaps it will be late enough or I will be tired enough to simply fall into bed. Or perhaps I will find my computer and sit on the couch with the long blue ethernet cable plugged in, wondering why this break feels so much more encompassing than the last time I was home for the weekend.

Perhaps after the appropriated amount of time has passed I will be able to determine whether this resistance is against growing up or leaving or change or something altogether un-named. At this point all I can identify for certain is a heaviness that wavers between my stomach and heart. I refuse to allow it admittance so far as my head, where I know it will force its way into the open, though I know it will get there eventually. And so I will plead ignorance of the future but grasp at every straw and fragment, clinging to the present while it is there. I have already (academically) accepted the departure, but I refuse to act upon it before such is rendered absolutely necessary by the turning of my back to Whitworth for the last time as a student.

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