I sat in front of a blank screen in the newspaper office, trying to write my final letter from the editor last night as the rest of the college congregated to celebrate the semester’s end outside of our doors; many were in fact inside the office. The entire college, along with all of the current events in my life, it seemed, had conspired against me with an impenetrable army of pressure. I couldn’t write a word.

All day I’d attempted to ascribe meaning to my final collegiate acts: my last English paper, my last class, my last departmental tea, my last all-night newspaper layout night. Part of me wanted these moments to be more translucent, more profound, and somehow also more real because they comprise a day of lasts: to be photographed at highest resolution and locked away for later review.

I realized, however, the impossibility of making an event or hour profound when the importance of that event is entirely contextual. The things I most likely will continue to remember about that day may very well be reading, once again, the poster my friend Dave has had on the wall of his four rooms here at college. I have already begun to forget those feelings and events I had footnoted as important from my freshman year. Memory has its own agenda.

The one constancy in the catalogue of my memory is the moments that were experienced with immediate and intense physical experiences. While I won’t remember the pain, joy, wonder or terror, I’ll remember why I had felt it; this will automatically fly into the Important folder.

When I recall the three weeks this semester in which I was, as I have since described it, under attack on every level, strange, inconsequential details stay with me to remind me of the whole experience. I remember lying in bed not being able, but desperately wanting, to sleep for the mere three hours I could afford, and I remember the several irregular heartbeats and the knots in my back that wouldn’t let me.

I do not wish to stain my memory of Pomona College further by recounting its painful aspects; right now, however, knowing it is over, the moments that were most beautiful to me are now the most painful to reflect upon. It was this bind that kept me from writing anything last night.

After sleeping for a few hours and returning to the office while the rest of Pomona slept off its hangover, I was surprised to read the only words I’d written last night as sort of a motivational push for myself: Keep writing. It is the only cure for this disease.

I dedicate this to next year’s TSL staff, and to my fellow graduating seniors. It has been a memorable experience.

Sincerely,

Megan A Purn

Editor-in-Chief