fourth year julia mun

Dear Athens,

As May draws nearer with each second, it is time to bid farewell to you. To be honest, I didn’t think I had it in me to write this; in the midst of my bitterness, my anger, I convinced myself that the end of my college career would end in a sigh of relief. That I could cast away my memories of you as easily as blowing out a finished candle.

I think back to my first letter to you, where I wrote out of anger, where I would have given anything to count the days here more quickly. But I can feel my heart race. In anticipation, in fear.

I am unsure of what to expect anymore. The reality of leaving is fast approaching and I find myself inadvertently grasping at smoke, coming away empty.

The craving has died, tempered by softer sunsets and towering trees. Instead, I am at a crossroad. I can see paths stretching away at my feet, like endless train tracks running multiple directions. I can’t see past the hazy distances at the ends. The only one I am sure of is the one behind me, of the life I shared with you.

How have you become a source of security for me? A constant reminder of the things I do have?

I was so worried about setting my roots here because if I did, I was afraid you would drain away what little was left of me. But I failed to notice that you had already grown tendrils around my memories. It doesn’t matter if they are fond or not, you are still there.

We have a history now, a rare sense of familiarity. I will see you in echoes, in afterthoughts. And I will still think of you, in the pockets of new landscapes and new faces.

So this letter is not truly a farewell. A version of you will inevitably live alongside the constant evolution of me.

Maybe this is a thank you, for teaching me the magic of being still.

Julia

A Farewell Letter