Crying during the last lecture even if you hated the class.
CRYING DURING THE LAST LECTURE EVEN IF YOU HATED THE CLASS.
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Remember that gut-wrenching core requirement or the obscure seminar you barely tolerated? You meticulously counted down the minutes, then the days, to its merciful end. Yet, as that final lecture concluded, a strange, undeniable lump formed in your throat. A tear, perhaps. Not for the quadratic formula, surely. Not for the professor's monotonous voice or the convoluted theories. But for what, exactly?
It wasn't about the subject matter, was it? It was about the end. The profound, often unexpected, finality of another chapter closing in this intense, exhilarating, sometimes frustrating journey. Those tears weren't for the content, but for the context. They were for the late nights fueled by questionable coffee, the impossible deadlines met with a mix of panic and perseverance, the strange camaraderie forged in shared misery. They were for the impending leap into the unknown, leaving behind the only adult life you'd truly known within these storied walls.
This place molds us in peculiar ways. We complain about the workload, the pressure, the arcane traditions. But when the moment of departure arrives, even the aspects we claimed to despise take on a bittersweet hue. The last lecture, regardless of its intellectual value, becomes a symbol. A primal scream, a quiet one, acknowledging everything that was, everything that shaped us, and everything we're about to leave behind. It’s an acknowledgment of the love-hate relationship with an era that forged us. What did those tears truly signify for you?
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