When I first got my acceptance letter for the college of my dreams, I was ecstatic, and all I could see was the hazy allure of the future. Now that I am here and the haze has faded, I often catch my gaze drifting to the side. High school has become the butterfly in the room, a fluttering, beautiful entity of fixation.
I grew up in a somewhat smaller town, one that was not rural, but not the picture of a city either, and instead floated in that strange in-between state of non-commitment. Daily life was nice and slow, open, and cozy. The chirping of birds would wake you up in the morning, and the cicadas would lull you to sleep at night. Riding bikes around the neighborhood was the go-to on the weekends when you were bored out of your mind and desired some wind on your face. Friends with cars would pick you up after school, and the friend group would meet yet again at the small town center, which is a perfect five-minute drive from everyone’s house. You and these same friends would reconvene and debrief again at school the next day, every day after a hangout, high on the feeling of community and being known.
At school, aside from slight adjustments, I took classes with all the same people practically every year, so I knew everyone so well that it probably would have been appropriate to invite them to a Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, I attended so many events hosted by the same people that I do not see why I would not enjoy that hypothetical dinner. Conversation was always so easy and natural that it flowed from hallways to field trips to casual parties to graduation. Funnily enough, while the contents of these conversations have now slipped my mind, I still retain their shared emotions of warm familiarity and love.
I reminisce about high school because of how well it encapsulates everything I loved about my life before “adulthood.” I loved the setting, I loved the people, I loved the experiences, and I even loved coming to school every day to live it again with the added academic stress. Looking back, even compared to the years of kindergarten to middle school, high school was much more enjoyable to me because of my increased agency in creating and pursuing experiences. The sadness I felt during high school graduation came from realizing that my freedom was about to increase, but the life that had nurtured me would no longer be there with it. I knew I would have to make another one for myself, in the future, but had not expected the effects this would have on my psyche.
I am still only a college freshman, with so many days to go and adventures to take, and I like it here so far, but I find myself reminiscing more and more each day. I am not sure how to stop longing for the past, but I would like to learn. There are side effects of this feeling as well: every time I drive back home, it feels so normal that I’m disappointed. I suppose I have associated magic with the place itself, when the real magic was visualized by my introspective adolescent mind at a time when I had no real care in the world. Now I often wonder if I will ever stop missing high school; maybe this is a sign I need to spend more time studying instead of thinking aimlessly.