
I will miss this place — the wide and worn wooden surface, the soft glow of lamplight, the silence broken only by bird song.
I will miss this place — the corner window with a pretty view of my neighbor’s front garden and layers of lush tropical trees, the space to think, the piles of books, the cozy feel of home.
Tomorrow, another semester begins. At every hour, the bell will ring, students will rush to class, and the noise of traffic will stick to me. It will be frenetic, busy and tiring.
Part of me dreads it. Part of me is excited to begin. That part looks at school day no. 1 like a blank page in a new notebook. Each conversation, each lecture, each paper checked another chance to touch a life, and maybe make a difference.
But even then, I’ll miss this place. Swimming in all that noise, I’ll remember with longing the silent contentment of sitting here. I’ll look back and crave for the satisfying joy of spending countless hours in this scholar’s cave. The best place in the world to think, read, create, and dream.
So for now, I will sit, relish, and steep. I’ll soak in every second left before I dive into another year. I will bask in the beauty of soft yellow lamplight, the gentle whisper of the AC, the stillness of time.
Yet, I know that deep within, I don’t want my solitude to end with me. This place isn’t supposed to be the end. It’s a first step. A launching pad. Here, I prepare.
I prepare for what’s out there. I prepare to give. I prepare by filling myself up with knowledge, new perspectives, and energy so I can teach well and serve others.
So tomorrow, I might miss this place, but I know if I don’t get out there, I’ll eventually resent my cave. I won’t be happy if my time here turns into isolation. Out there is what I need, so what happens here spills out and translates into something generous, thoughtful, and selfless.
