Musings of a senior

The hectic pace of senior year makes every activity, however mundane or seemingly conducive to relaxation, a chore. From the moment I wake up, my mind starts to preoccupy itself with what the day has in store, from the pile of clothes I just put into the dryer, to the never ending set of meetings and correspondences that have to be made.

Even daily prayer and the intake of God’s Word have declined in precedence because I am oft-too tired to get up in the early morning; and at night, my mind is dismally out of focus. There just is not enough daylight! I marvel at how quickly the fresh canopy smell of the morning dissipates like a mist, giving way to the moldy scent of evening and night. Still, I do not resent the fullness of my schedule. Better to have the mind and body taxed for purposeful things than to let it waste away thinking of things to do.

So inspired was I by the thought of life as constant activity that this clumsy limerick pushed itself onto a word page I had opened:

The life of a Knox senior sucks,

Some days I just feel out of luck.

Cause my schedule is full,

And my pillow’s got drool,

And I almost get hit by a truck.

(The last line is not true of me, but of someone else I do not know. A friend saw this unknown person get hit – must have been a senior preoccupied with something).

Working for The Knox Student is a new experience. I have enjoyed my tenure so far because the logistics of everything are so expertly handled by the higher-ups. The first official issue of the newspaper is in the works, which means that the following two nights will be spent carefully sifting through piles of articles.

Copy editing is not as easy as it sounds. I like to think that copy editors are the first line of defense. We man the trenches as enemies of poor structure, awful punctuation, biased writing and general BS try to get past. Though the enemy outnumbers us, the intersecting crisscross trajectory of our machine gun fire will be sure to cut many down. If that does not finish the job, our batons – that is, our pens – are filed to a delicate and deadly point.