I’ve been dying for a long time now. Not in the overly morbid sense, like with every sentence of this article you read you’re a few moments closer to death, or that I’ve spent a good part of a beautiful afternoon writing this in hopes someone will like it. Sure, neither the reader or writer will ever get this very moment back, but that’s not what I mean.

I mean I’m dying–to get out of high school, to get on with my classes, my life, and make something of myself. As happy as you are in the moment, for some reason we’re always looking to the future. It’s like we’re living for the big moments in life instead of enjoying the simple days.

I’ve been dreaming of graduation for eighteen years but I can’t tell you how I’ve gotten here. It’s hard to cherish freshman year French class, sitting there learning the passe compose in a mind-numbing classroom, but it will help with that trip you’re planning to Europe. It’s hard to wrap your mind around junior year Advanced Algebra-Trigonometry, but it’s nice months later in Physics. Eighteen years of dreaming about May 21, the day my education will amount to a piece of parchment; the day I’ll have to find a new dream.

People wake up on Mondays with the intent of not being happy until Friday night, until school or work is over and play time begins again. Why, though? Why not make school pleasant when you can and get a job you enjoy? Why not spend every moment happy? You’re never getting this day back and you’re not getting any younger, that’s for sure. Sitting in class will never be the epitome of excitement, but in a blink of an eye you’ll be hiding behind red and silver streamers at your twenty-year class reunion wondering where the time went.

College, a job, a husband, family, retirement, and then suddenly you’re actually on the brink of death, clutching to memories of your youth, realizing you’ve forgotten to live. Where did the time go? We’ve spent all our lives regretting the past or dying for the next part of our life without enjoying the here, the now. But seventy years down the road you’ll be wishing you could go back to the good ole days when stress amounted to Barbie-doll drama or muddy monster trucks, not paychecks and promotions or what you want engraved on your tombstone.

In forty-five days our lives will change forever, and as the senior class of 2016 it’s expected of us to continue dying until we march our way across Averett’s stage. With every finished-exam sigh and essay-cramped hand chisels another marble piece of us away, a sculpted David of our memories. Enjoy high school while it’s here. Enjoy all the people you’ll never see again, the free education, the youth you’ll never get back. As cliché as it sounds, someday you’ll want it all back.