When Highschool Ends

There are many beginnings to every story, but each has one thing in common; they are, somehow, less than perfect. Perhaps it all depends on the paths we take that will lead us to the ending we’ve been waiting for, or the one we’ve been dreading.

But of one thing I am certain: no matter how imperfect it may seem, I would not trade this particular story for any other.

When I awoke that morning and saw the midnight hue of the sky, a clear indication that any sane person should still be sleeping at that time, I wanted nothing more than to sink my head into my pillow and drift into dreamland once again. Unfortunately, I was not to be granted this opportunity, so I grudgingly rose and donned the uniform that had been forgotten over the summer vacation. It was the first day of school, once again, and it was just like the others I’ve experienced before; the only difference is that I’m transferring to another building, and I was in a new batch.

I can’t really say it was akin to being a new student, for I knew my surroundings, most of the faces I’ve seen around the campus, and had four friends who accelerated with me, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about what were about to undertake.

Everyone was nice enough, I presume, but it is impossible not to feel ignored when you try to squeeze into the life of people who’ve been together since kindergarten. You can sit on your desk with a plastered, eager smile, with friendliness practically radiating from you, but there is no way to avoid feeling intrusive and out of place. As a result, I and my friends remained in that isolated bubble comprised of the batch’s newcomers, observing only from a distance; giggling at their jokes, talking with them for group and school works, occasionally drifting into their lives, but still feeling like there was something else to be desired from us.

Then, as quickly as we were somewhat shunned, we were suddenly a part of them, and not just considered as aliens that happened to have landed on their strange little world and were trying to camouflage. It was, at least, a step closer to surviving the next few years, which would supposedly be the best ones of my life.

And now that our time is almost over, I have to agree.

A song from a well-known musical once asked, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, how do you measure, measure a year?” And answered the very question it imposed with, “Measure in love.”

I never thought that four years would have been sufficient for everything that has happened.

I’ve watched batch mates fall in and out of love with each other and go through courting phases even if neither of them knew how those were supposed to go; old friendships get bruised, frayed and die through fights and misunderstandings that no one can seem to resolve, and be renewed afterwards through teary apologies and promises that are bound to be defied, and countless class plays that we never seem to tire of making.

I’ve seen boys work out endlessly to turn their either chubby or stick like figures into ones that are more or less fit, tears streaming down the faces of people I never thought were capable of crying or getting angered, and various online journals that never fail to put a smile to my face, even if they’re just ordinary recaps of the day told in a hilarious manner.

I’ve heard snide, hurtful words slip from people’s lips that they will eventually regret, our praises blend into a cacophony of prayers as we worshiped with the most broken of voices and most yearning of hearts, the laughter echo from classroom walls as yet another one of our carefree guys comments randomly in the middle of a lessons.

I’ve felt the pressure of so many expectations being loaded onto my shoulders and weighing me down to my breaking point; the sadness that threatened to suffocate me in my darkest hours when I looked around and saw that I was all alone, and not just in the literal sense; the relief and love that overwhelmed me when people cared enough to share my burdens and, slowly but carefully, lifted me up to my feet until I was strong enough to stand on my own again.

There are many beginnings to every story, but each has one thing in common; they are, somehow, less than perfect. Perhaps it all depends on the paths we take that will lead us to the ending we’ve been waiting for, or the one we’ve been dreading.

So many have said it before, but the truth in it needs to be emphasized so more can believe; perhaps life is not about the big events that changed it dramatically, those circumstances that will always seem like a good and interesting story to tell.

Maybe, just maybe, it is in those fleeting, imperfect moments that we can find the times we truly feel alive, and not just feel like breathing piles of flesh with simply our hearts beating inside us as a poor reassurance of our often seemingly meaningless existence.

It is my last year with these people who started out as strangers, but have come to mean so much to me, so precious that I cannot even fathom how much I love each and every one of them. I’ve seen them at their best, their weakest; heard what they had to say and felt roller coasters of emotions with them. Though I am willing to wager that when we reach graduation, I would feel incomplete and robbed of so many memories we could have made had fate decided not to separate us, I am nevertheless grateful that God allowed me to grow close to these people, who are not just blessings or gifts, but friends that I cannot and will not forget, even if I tried.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes are all we have left; how are we to spend it?

So for the many things in life that I took for granted, thinking they’ll last forever, that I was somehow incapable of losing them, I learned my lesson.

I am glad I met you.