Jumping back into a slow-moving wagon

Here I sit in the first class of the first day of my last week of college.

Some might think that I'm worried, trepidatious, and perhaps even afraid of the fast-approaching loss of structure and academic retaining wall.

Well, Some, you couldn't be more wrong.
Everything is blossoming to a greater effulgence with the counting down of every day.
As I tick off each class period on my mental calendar and envision the deep red Xs on a prisoner's wall, all I am capable of feeling is elation.

True, uninhibited, and thoroughly intoxicating freedom is so close that I can feel the hairs on every limb buzz with an electric crackle and even the clouds seem less gray and smothering what with the knowledge of my Daedalian flight coming to an melting and furious dive.

Falling is for those who have been told they'll only ever be known by the heights they reach.
Diving is for the few of us who cannot be contented by solely air.
The cool, dark and mysterious chasms beneath the waves hold so much beauty and possibility.
And I am unafraid.

Everything in me is longing for the refreshment of the asphyxiating depths.
Because I don't breathe air.
I tolerate it.
I don't beg for the safety of land.
I challenge it.
And I don't just accept what I'm given.
I vivisect it.

My life is naught but a timeless vivisection.
And how I love to be drawn and quartered by my own hand.