I sit in a corner and furiously key in words that pop in my head. I seriously have some heavy writer�s block. Not that I�m writer. So I already had the topic for this little nook on paper, but I can�t seem to make the words arrange themselves into clauses with an actual train of thought. Its a few minutes before the deadline (literally). No, scratch that. I�m way behind the actual deadline; I just twiddled my way around so I can submit at the last possible second, because I write better when I cram. So I�ll just lay it out in the open. No introductions and frills, I�m just going to write (or type in this case) whatever excess recall my mind will seep out.

How do you fit 1,340 days worth of memories in a box? A hopeless case I say. But here I am trying to do it. Unless a box can hold metric tons worth of reminiscences, my chances of closing it are paper-thin. Every candid shot I store away, every bloody bluebook I file, every ten-thousand word paper I stack, heaps of photocopied books are stashed somewhere, anecdotes of the monay vendor, stories of my numerous roommates, the quotable quotes of my professors, the taste of isaw and fishball and the smoke from the cars that are infused in them, the smell of moist earth and the solace given by the shady trees. The list goes on, and on, and on.

I regret that it is only now that I am finally opening up to a world I have been in for the last three years of in this university Now I am getting a taste of the late night-slash-early morning picnics (yes, they exist and so do the calories accumulating on my belly) and the tales that come with it. The memories that come with it are all worth saving. The ones I�d want to put on top of my box, right before I try to tape it. It�s the homestretch, the part where everything is in slow motion and the finish line is an arm�s length away.