My flight for Philadelphia leaves in approximately five hours and forty-five minutes. It leaves in exactly five hours and thirty-seven minutes. Not like I'm counting or anything. I should probably sleep, but I know I'm far too wired for it.
These last few hours before lift off aren't exactly what I'd call a case of cold feet, but more of a final, stark appreciation of what I'm on the edge of. I've been listening to the same song from a folk artist on repeat for the past two hours; today was spent in a frenzy of paperwork and final goodbyes to friends, and girding myself for the familial goodbyes at the airport. Apprehensive, Jonas decided. But, you know, psyched.
All I keep thinking is that these are not necessarily real partings, but simply the next chapter of our lives, is all. Section X out of ? parts. Pick up the pen or the word processor, and compose, damn it, just like any other thesis I've ever embarked upon, scholarly or non. Starting is always the hardest part.
Five hours and twenty-seven minutes, now.
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