a boquet of sharpened pencils.

I used to love the first day of school.
I would lie awake in bed the night before, quivering in anticipation.
Who would I meet?
Who would I have classes with?
Would my teachers be amazing?
Would I find my calling in life, lying dormant within me, just waiting to pop out during algebra or environmental science or Shakespearean literature and exclaim, "It's ME! You want to work with ME for the rest of your life!"
I was always so excited that I couldn't handle my life.
I just really loved school.

However, this year I don't seem to have that same excitement.
I haven't packed my backpack yet (that's new, in high school, my bag was packed at least 2 weeks in advance).
I wasn't excited to go get my books.
I didn't want to set up my schedule (which just caused me extra stress, as now I'm not in all of the classes I need to be in).
I feel more excited to get up and go running than I do to go to class and start a new semester.

This is my last first day of school in the fall, and I think that the reason I'm not excited is because, well, I'm scared.
After this year, I will no longer have the comfort of knowing that every year, I will get myself out of bed in late August/early September, put my bathing suit in the drawer for the winter, pick out what I'll wear, exchange the novel for the text books, and truck myself off to class.
That's the problem. I like patterns. I like stability. As much as I do like change, sometimes, I don't love big ones.

So, tonight, I will brush my teeth, I will wash my face, I will lay out my first day of school outfit, I will dutifully go to bed early, and I will probably sleep soundly with no inkling of a quiver.

Which makes me a little sad.