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I never really liked endings all that much. Of course, if one of my more psychology-smitten friends had their go at that, they’d devise some monstrous connection between my lack of endings and some unresolved issues with a childhood pet. Alas, Fido never materialized, outside of subtle begging around the holidays that I really, really wanted a dog, and the constant and ever present negative response. But psychoanalysis aside — I would reference Annie Hall here if not for, well, everything there is surrounding Woody Allen — I never did quite like endings. There’s the obvious, childish reason: If a storyteller is going to bother making something this good, surely they should make more for my amusement? I like wrapped up stories with their nice pretty bows, the “happily ever after”s and the “rode off into the sunsets.” I like my villains getting their comeuppance and my heroes getting their dreams and yet I could not condone the author allowing these stories to end. Give me more, give me something else, let me immerse myself in page and screen for just a few more chapters and episodes because I’m sure I could find something else to love. I’d slow down reaching the end of novels, watch the last episodes of any show I’d loved bingeing more slowly and spaced out. It was, unfortunately, inconvenient for those I watched with. I don’t think my friends ever forgave me for turning the last season of “Psych” into a three-month ordeal, but it still gave me an excuse to live in the worlds I had imagined just a little bit longer.
So, yeah, I never really liked the endings of stories. Unfortunately, my dad — one of those types who seems to think that he should share his likes and interests and passions with his son — in a fit of what I can only describe as fanatical father-son glee, decided to (lovingly of course) read to me a book that had the sort of ending that I should have absolutely despised. I don’t remember too much about that day. I do remember sitting on the floor playing with… LEGOs? No, I was never smart enough for LEGOs. I’d get stuck trying to count the studs and wind up losing my trains of thought, it was far more likely I’d decide to play with wooden blocks that had no confusing segments to count. I sat there, blocks in hand, as my dad read from a story that had been written nearly three quarters of a century ago, from a book whose cover was emblazoned with a stylized face I later found out had nothing to do with the story at all. Apparently, the publisher just thought it was cool. The story he was reading to me was Isaac Asimov’s “Nightfall,” and I’m not sure why it’s on my mind in my junior year of college. “Nightfall”, for those of you who don’t know, ends on a non-cliffhanger. Technically speaking, few questions are answered, we get no hint to the characters’ future, the world that the book has set up is over, and nothing anyone did could have changed that. The world ends. Hard to write a more “fin” finale than that. There is nothing to wrap up because there is no tomorrow to start a different story with. “Nightfall” ends and that is it.
It captured my imagination and never once let go. “Nightfall” was the book I thought about when I started writing short stories. “Nightfall” was the book I thought about when I started trying to improve my own writing. “Nightfall” was the book I thought about when I applied for colleges. It was the inspiration for my essays, it was the backbone of my applications, and, somehow, the basis of my philosophy to college itself.
All this for a book that didn’t even have an ending. Even when I look back on how influential this book has been to me, I still do not know exactly why it is that I am thinking about it. I’m not nearly done with college: I still have a healthy two-and- a-half years to go (something about a master’s degree and a pathological fear of employment have played a part in that). My world isn’t ending, I still have finals to do, and classes to take, and so so many hobbies to pick up, and yet somehow I can’t stop thinking about “Nightfall.” The characters in “Nightfall” don’t know that their world will end. They do know, though, when. They have a time, a future point, a thick, red circle in their calendar marking the day that everything changes.
I am only halfway there. I have been through so much and yet I cannot for a second act as if I have seen it all because I am only halfway there. I have so much left to learn, so much left to try and struggle and fail and forget because I am only halfway there.
It goes by in a blink of an eye sometimes. Too much happened this semester, Lord knows if I remember most of it.
I do remember a bit though: the terror that was my first night at Carnegie Mellon, the early morning walks I took when I first realized I’d be calling Pittsburgh my home for the next four years. I remember calling my parents when I was scared and stressed and panicked and happy and confused and celebrating, and still, I do not call them nearly enough. I remember getting to know my roommate, being broken by difficult homeworks and failing my first test. I remember, I remember, I remember. I met my best friends here, people who have seen me through so much and will see me through so much more. I’ve met people who have changed my life, good and bad influences that I let convince me into too many escapades. I’ve met people who have made me want to be a better me more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world.
I’ve spent weeks stressing over things that I’ll laugh about in ten years. I’ve spent hours pouring over work that I do not remember doing anymore because trust me, three months later, the intricacies of Machine Learning Homework #6 and Machine Learning Homework #7 have been (perhaps forcefully) forgotten. I have so many stories to tell, experiences to share, so many parts of my life that have transformed in only two-and-a-half years!
That deadline looms, ever large, in the distance. I will graduate. College will end. The freedom and magic has to end. My “Nightfall” has a date. This world cannot last forever and I am already halfway there.
And that brings me, in some meandering way, to my last realization. I recently switched majors and if anyone knows me, you’ll know that a) I have not shut up yet about finally becoming an engineer, and b) yes, I’m sticking with this one, I’m not changing it anymore. Regardless, the thing about swapping majors is that, well, you wind up sitting around with a bunch of freshmen taking a class that is some people’s first introduction to this godforsaken place and realize — besides “Oh my God, I’m old” — that there’s no real deadline. There is no nightfall because things change and grow and don’t remain the same from day to day, week to week and, sure, sometimes those changes will be drastic but you cannot stay static. I don’t know how I ever convinced myself I could.
So, yeah, that’s two-and-a- half years at Carnegie Mellon. That’s countless all-nighters, a fair few silly parties, a never ending stream of bad jokes, infuriatingly funny conversations, frantic study hours, and oh-we-should- totally-get-lunch’s said to people I’ll talk to at most once a year. That’s two-and-a- half years summed up, really. Here’s to two-and-a-half more — trust me, I’ve never been more ready to be halfway there.