One Day Left

When I opened blogger to start writing this post, my countdown clock read: one day, four hours, and fifty-three minutes. It now reads one day, four hours, and twenty minutes, and I still don't know what to say.

Am I enervated? Alarmed? Panicing?

Sad? Confused? Overjoyed?

The truth is, dear readers, that I really don't know. My mental state is analogous to a moving pendulum, swinging from one side of my emotional-spectrum to the other, until, inevitably, the pendulum loses energy, and is reduced to a stand still - only to be set in motion again by any slight word or action.

 This morning I was jittery, prone to skipping around the house and singing. This afternoon, I was stressed, noticing, for the first time, that I have shown no apparent inclination towards packing up my room, a year of my life, into 44 pounds. Tonight, I was a mess, on the verge of tears, thinking of the people that I will be leaving for ten months in  roughly twenty-four hours time.

One day, four hours, twelve minutes.

But alas, time moves at a constant rate, and, despite my ever-changing mood, whether excited, stressed-out, or sad, my long-awaited dream looms ever closer. I have a host family waiting for me, a language ready to be learned, and relationships ready to be made. Soon, I will be in a room with hundreds of AFS-ers, reaching out to people from all over the world.

One day, four hours, eight minutes.

When the countdown reaches zero, I will be in the air, bleary-eyed, fatigued, and, most likely, emotionally drained.

At negative five hours, I will be landing in New York, ready to be whisked off to the hotel in which the New York orientation will take place.

Negative twenty four hours, I will be on my way to Paris, France. And from there? Who knows. All I know is that I want whatever's waiting for me - whatever that may be.

One day, four hours, and three minutes.

I was ecstatic this morning, stressed this afternoon, and dismal this evening. But right now? I'm tired. Though my bed wont be my bed for much longer, it is mine now, and I wish to sleep in it. So, I bid you farewell, whoever you are. I will write again when I'm safe and sound in my host-family's house, teeming with stories and information. Au revoir.

One day, three hours, fifty-nine minutes.