Graduation has come and gone, the days leading to, through, and past it haven’t made much of a stamp on my brain, the slate of my thinky mind, the perceptive part, remaining truly a tabula rosa. Between the stresses of grades and the last minute collapse of them, the uncertainty of repairing them, and the festive sense of my peers in which I couldn’t bring myself to share until today, I’ve imprinted very little of the experience. My undergraduate career is over. I managed, finally, to finish and have done so with high honors.
As I thought and wrote, the entirety of the decade plus experience seemed necessary to relate in order for me to properly explain the bizarre blend of sensations I’ve had over the past weeks. Given the hard and fasted rule of a 650 word attention span on the internet and my own fear of delving into the self-congratulation, an autobiography seems ill-suited to Thistlehammer Transmutational. But I felt it necessary to write something. Like a great deal of my thoughts, I haven’t yet codified exactly how I feel about being out of school, and won’t really know until I’ve written the whole of it, until I’ve examined it as an author or an observer, rather than a participant.
When I’ve written that piece, then the experience will seem complete. I think then I’ll be able to encapsulate it, but as of now nothing feels different. As a writer, I must write, and that is the simple nature of my chosen existence.