I'm now sitting at my desk, frantically trying to write two essays which are due in the next two days, and being content. It is strange to feel so stressed out about all that I must accomplish as term comes to an end and as I prepare to leave, and yet to be so glad.
Let me describe what I mean. I am now existing in the midst of a beautiful piece of art. It engages each of my senses and more. I am now looking at a perfect Oxford picture: my computer screen (the cursor poised awaiting my jumbled thoughts to be poured out that they may be organized and perhaps made beautiful), an open book, my glasses on the desk (where they sit whenever I am thinking intensely), my friends sitting in similar attitudes around me, one of my roommates asleep as she always is while I feverishly try to get everything done in time. I am listening to Mumford and Sons and Mae. I've just come back from the library, made my friends and I tea, talked and laughed with them for longer than I ought, and am trying to schedule my time for tomorrow in a way that will allow me to get everything done.
After I leave, I will still be able to look at this work of art. I will remember it, I will look at photos, I will talk to these people. Whenever I hear certain songs, I will be reminded of these experiences and friends. But never again will I be part of this work of art. It will not be mine anymore. This is hard to come to terms with. And yet, even knowing this, I am strangely content. For I have been a part of the making of this beautiful piece of art. And even though I and my Oxford friends are the only ones who will see it and know its beauty, it has been made and made well and in this I find comfort. The pain that I already feel at the prospect of leaving is beautiful, too, for the pain is a result of how wonderful the experience itself has been. It is this which gives me the most comfort and allows me to be content in the face of impending sadness. We've made a piece of art and although we must leave it, we can leave it knowing that it is beautiful.
