6:47 pm, Saturday night, 3/12/2016. This newspaper column was due yesterday, and here I sit here with only a few disjointed paragraphs on the page.

I’ve been sick. It’s not a cold or the flu – it’s mild senioritis.

*brushes off crumbs while gulping Orange Crush*

In my last column, I wrote about feeling like a freshman again and taking time to explore. Apparently, there are some very key differences between myself now, and myself as a perky, gray-Harker-sweatshirt-wearing underclassman. In my freshman year, I turned in every newspaper assignment a day early – my editors always gave me funny looks. I pushed myself to the limit.

*reclines in pillow cushion seat*

The motivation feels thinner now. Granted, I’m thankful my senioritis is only mild. I’ve seen worse – students abandoning coursework entirely to play video games in class, toeing the line of rescind letter from their favorite university. While I may not be skipping school to hit the cafes and lounge, a certain question has wound its way through my mind – and, I’m sure, the minds of my comrades: “Why does any of this matter anymore?”

I’m not cynical. The last three years have been no act, fueled by genuine passion in what I chose to pursue. It’s been a marathon – and like anyone who’s run a marathon, I’m exhausted. I pull up the calendar app on my computer screen and think “Just two more issues of the Post to go!” The next moment, there’s the guilt.

The Journalism room was my home when I stepped onto the Upper school campus four years ago. It was a place to hang out, to chat with friends, and to prepare to go out into the world and report. It accepted me, and I owe it to my reporters, editors and my adviser to give my all until the end.

*narrows eyes into a steely gaze of conviction*

I organize the thoughts in my head – I’m almost at the finish line, but in a marathon, the last stretch can be the leg that loses the race. I sit up, push away the soda can, and begin to write.