Four days to go, four days...(feels like three though since I leave at 6am on Thursday morning) it feels unreal. For the past month or so, I've been looking to this week with a mixture of dread and excitement, uncontrolled glee and uncontrollable sobbing. Which is greater though, the happiness or sadness? It's 50/50, right down the middle. For the past couple weeks when I should have been studying, I've been catching up on all the TV shows I missed over April, reading NY Times, eating too many an ice cream bar, and most importantly: writing.
What? WHAT?! It's taken me this fucking long to want to write, right when I should be concentrating on more important things? But...are they more important things? Crazy thing, I know, to be hearing from a perfectionist, school-loving girl, but my random bursts of unhelpful or useless writing have turned out to be just the opposite. Maybe, just maybe, I can finish what I began four years ago this upcoming summer? Autumn's story can finally be finished and I can have the joy of working on something else?
You get to this awkward point at the end of a story where you are writing out of need rather than creative want. There's no more mystery to the journey any longer, the characters have told you how their story will end and they are developed to the point that any more manipulation of their actions will seem ingenuous. This is why I love daydreaming about The Mystieks; Isabelle is in the beginning stages of development and I am still very much in charge of her path. As a control-freak of sorts, losing that control over your characters is both freeing and draining. I miss that feeling though and perhaps I have to start thinking not about Autumn being fully-formed but of the plot still being somewhat under my control even if it's mostly been sorted out.
Anyways, the random writings continue as the studying for my two English finals this week dwindle. It's annoying because I know I could rock these exams if I gave a shit at this point and that I'll do a respectable job not trying at all. If it were any other subject, I'd be fucked, but I'm good at English; I get it. Analyzing paragraphs, looking at historical context, descriptive writing that drips off the tongue like honey, symbolism up the wazoo, these are the things for which I live.
I'm at a weird place right now though, mentally and emotionally. I have one foot still in Cork City and amongst my mountaineering friends here that I've come to love (and tolerate) like a family, and one foot back in Milwaukee/Iowa City with all I've loved for years. I feel the weight of leaving this place pressing down on my shoulders when I wander around Cork City at 3am, sleep refusing to relieve me. Going through the motions of the days, I wait until I can see or hang out with friends or have another shitty idea about which I can write to give me a purpose. Yes, I'm being melodramatic; hell, it's what I do! In all seriousness though, I do miss home like there's no tomorrow and miss Cork already even though I'm still residing here.
I'll probably save packing until the last possible moment to avoid the sadness. At least I have my sister and friends back home to comfort me and remind be why I love Wisconsin so much, and my Iowa and sorority sisters back at U of I to make me feel welcome in the fall at my home-away-from-home. Counting down the days, trying not to let it get to me and attempt to give a shit about my last days as an underclassman. Soon, I'll be flying into O'Hare with a lump in my throat and butterflies in my stomach. With tears in my eyes, I'll run off that plane to hug my family and drive back home to good 'ole Milwaukee. I can both wait and barely wait.