In the blink of an eye

You know that feeling you get when something that brings you joy — maybe it’s a passion project or your favorite season — comes to an end? That feeling of happiness from having experienced something wonderful, tinged with melancholy from knowing that it’s over?

Though indescribable in the English language, this feeling is perfectly encapsulated by the Japanese term 物の哀れ, or “Mono no aware.” The understanding that life and all things in it are brief, fleeting and transitory.

I first set foot on the UC Berkeley campus four years ago, filled with bright-eyed optimism and excited to experience the college life I’d watched eagerly through reruns of “Neighbors” and “90210.” Yet even as I unpacked my luggage in the tiny Unit 2 triple I would call home for my freshman year, I found myself thinking, “Four years — it seems so long, yet I’m sure it’ll fly by all too quickly.”

That flash of doubt lasted but a split second. Indeed, I quickly forgot my trepidation as I found myself swept up in countless coffee runs, all-nighters in Moffitt Library and not-so-sneaky naps during organic chemistry. As an underclassman, it was easy to brush off the idea of graduating as a distant concept, surely not yet applicable to me.

But once in a while, I’d find myself studying at my favorite café or listening to a newsroom argument about the best and worst sources. And a little subconscious thought would slowly creep up — so slowly that I wouldn’t notice it at first — and even in the midst of laughing with friends, I’d think to myself, “What a wonderful moment in time this is. I wish I could capture it and stay here forever, but this has to end eventually, doesn’t it?”

Junior year rolled around and suddenly, graduation seemed a lot closer on this side of the college timeline. And then, in the blink of an eye, senior year arrived and I felt the same panic a student feels when they don’t start studying for an exam until the night before, and suddenly find themselves with too much work to do and not enough time. There were so many things I had yet to do, so many places I had yet to explore. And so little time to spend with the people I hold close to my heart.

So, I kept my eyes open to soak it all in, afraid to blink lest I closed my eyes, and senior year passed me by. I did everything I could to enjoy every moment, all the while stressing about the inevitable end that graduation would bring.

But in doing so, I failed to accept the core tenet of mono no aware — life is ephemeral, as are the things it encapsulates. But that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

Isn’t it the impermanence of things that makes them so appealing? It’s this fleetingness that makes us open our eyes wider and cock our ears a little more. School years, passion projects, our favorite moments in time — if they didn’t eventually come to a close and disappear, they would lose their sentiment and their ability to move us.

Over the past four years, I’ve had the opportunity to build a home. A beautiful, yet fleeting home that, while I’m sad to leave, I’m glad I was able to experience for the time that I did.

When I think back to college, I’ll remember fervently speed-walking across campus to Brewed Awakening after my 8 a.m. bioengineering class to see if I can snag the last banana walnut muffin. I’ll remember ordering as many drinks from Raleigh’s as my friends and I could between 5 and 7 p.m. to make sure we got the best bang for our buck during happy hour. I’ll remember lying on Memorial Glade and gazing at Doe Library, recalling the time my friend and I snuck onto the library’s ledge.

I’ll remember dragging my fellow editors all the way across campus to Tako Sushi just because I nursed a soft spot for its avocado rolls. I’ll remember wandering aimlessly on Northside just because I enjoy the architecture of the residential neighborhoods and I secretly enjoy going down the concrete slide at Codornices Park. I’ll remember briskly walking (I was probably running late) through Southside on my way to class and stopping to see the sunset at the corner of Bancroft and Piedmont.

But perhaps most of all, I’ll recall the little office wedged between Northside Cafe and the Lower Hearst parking lot — easily overlooked by passersby, but secretly brimming with memories, friends and an overwhelming sense of home. The Daily Californian office. The place that taught me to live with passion, boldness and a sense of purpose. The place filled with late night ciders, a chronically messy news desk and AP style jokes that only a journalist would find humorous. The place I’ve called home for the past four years.

During this past semester, every time I wrote a new article I wondered in fear, “Will this be my last?”

Yet here I am, writing what is most definitely the last piece I will ever write for the Daily Cal. But this time, I feel not fear, but finality. I’m armed with the acceptance that this final chapter has ended and, in the blink of an eye, this wonderfully life-changing book has been written. It’s time to move on and write a new one.

Am I sad to be leaving this city full of poignant memories and lifelong lessons? Of course. But I’m eternally grateful for the people I’ve met, the things I’ve learned and the time that I had here.