There's a wind blowing as I walk home; neither warm nor cold, neither a summer breeze nor autumn gusts. Yet, it comes with a slight, somewhat hidden edge. A rawness of the air not present during previous months.
Like a party of fleet-footed scouts sent ahead of an army to overlook the terrain, it's foreboding. It'll be calm for a little while still, it says.
But the storm is coming.

And me, I am back in school as of this last week. I've never been a little boy known to grow tired of being at home or look forward to the start of next semester, no matter how long vacation would stretch out. But now, I find that even though I can't stay up during the night or sleep for as long as I would want to anymore, I like what I get to do instead; even though I seem to spend most of my waking hours in a dissection room or with anatomy books, I'm happy where I am.

Part of me, I must admit, feels a bit sad about this, crazy as it may sound. Part of me was hoping I'd never grow up, never get institutionalized, never find anything as valuable to me as free, lazy summertime.
And part of me, hold on to your hats, tells me I'll be a motherfucking surgeon before you can say Blueberry Pie.