The World's Commander

When in the world I lived I was the world’s commander.
Shakespeare

It’s weird being in a place you used to — but no longer — call home.

I was on campus yesterday, after completing my courses and full-time internship there a year ago. Back then, even though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I was comfortable. Safe. I had courses I was doing well in. Professors who liked me and thought I was talented. Students and coworkers who were friends and support systems. And a cubicle, which though I detested it, was always there.

Back then, it was home. I knew what I was doing. Who I was. Whom I could count on. I could walk across campus confident and self-assured.

Now I’m a stranger there. A guest. Walking across campus makes me uneasy. I walk by people who are living a life I used to be a part of, a life that I’m now just passing through. I’m just a guy who still hasn’t finished his stupid thesis.

Part of you longs to get back there, where things made sense, and you were on top of the world even though you didn’t realize it.

But a campus is just a place. You can’t take the buildings and the parking lots and the trees. You can’t take the cubicle.

But you can take with you what matters. You can take the memories and the people. You can preserve the friendships. That way, when you leave campus, you haven’t lost as much as you think.

And you can focus on being the commander of the world you live in now.

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