Coda

I wrote this sometime last week, on bits of spare paper I gathered after my exams. I didn't have time to type it up until now:


Today I stepped outside and the campus was empty -- quiet, serene, almost eerie from the lack of noise. I walked slower, pattering my feet through the paved walkway. I had just taken my last exam that day, and as I left the building I couldn’t help but feel a great weight lifted from me. Gone were the days of staying up late, skipping meals, and cramming for exams I seemed to care less and less for. There I was, free, with nothing to prove to anyone but my own. “Free,” I kept repeating that word over and over in my mind. I reminded myself: learning is not a cage -- it never was -- but deadlines were, studying for exams was, and I never did learn to overcome that inherent fear of performance... I walked to the library and stared at its blank windows, dark now from the lack of activity. I spent hours in that place. It had been my second home. Now that it was dark and vacant, I could see my own reflection staring back at me. I didn’t like the feeling. I walked to the statue of Ben Franklin, and sat by his feet once more. Only one other time did I come here that sticks out in my mind. It was the beginning of September. I hadn’t resolved yet if Penn was right for me. I had fears, financial worries, and social insecurities. Somewhere in the midst of worrying for it all, I think I had forgotten what I was here for. The fundamental reasons were: to learn, to be educated, to specialize, and to make something better of myself. I fear that what it became instead was: relief, validation, a way out, freedom from what I thought was a mundane existence. Classes started, exams were scheduled, I sought out part-time jobs, and soon I had my own place in the world. I had a niche to call my own and a small voice to play in the grand organ of the university. The music was exquisite, beautiful, even intoxicating. It was the music of energy, the dance of innovation -- with ideas taking shape, hopes taking form, and dreams materializing into technologies, inventions, molecules, poetry, and works of art. It was also a play of constant movement: movement to finish tasks on time, movement to study presentations, to read books, meet with people, memorize equations, and take care of anything else that needed attending to when the time allowed. Somewhere along the way, the work became my life. It was the pattern and I could emulate it, crawl inside it, lie down, look back on it and say, "the Pattern is good." I would close my eyes and the sweet thought of completion would drift me off to sleep. Now, with the work done and ended, the hustle and bulk of ritual tasks is gone, and along with it, what I fear was my sense of meaning. I can almost stay still and listen to the tiny voice inside my head yearning for something more, as if there was a quiet but resolute pain of something missing. I feel like I didn’t make enough friends, let the semester pass by too quickly, didn’t get to explore the city enough, the world enough, and here I am, still aching for something more. I didn’t get to enjoy my time here without the pressing burden of work over my shoulders. I know that I did everything to try to prevent it, but these are the complaints I make silently to myself, knowing that a first experience can only occur once and never again. My time here was imperfect, but I can live with that. Perhaps it's as close to perfection, or happiness, as I could ever hope for, ...and I was happy here. The time I spent here was well spent. I'll cherish it for the rest of my lifetime. I just can’t help it. I love people. I love this place. I just don’t want to leave it. I want to go on thinking that my time here was meaningful.