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    As I walked out of that classroom for the last time, folding up my papers and gathering my things, I suddenly felt an icy rush of complete and utter emptiness.  I saw everything in plain sight, through unclouded eyes. Room 305 was nothing more than four bland walls containing empty desks and broken chairs.  And Leaside High School was a building, a structure that had been erected in one of the most frighteningly pretentious regions in Eastern Toronto. Here I was, exiting the comforting confinements of my second home, closing my eyes to my adolescence.
    I was a bottle that had lost its message, an empty transport void of all thought and emotion; after all that, I’d become nothing.  After the pain, the tears, the turmoil, I had come to a grinding halt.  My own and everyone else’s light had suddenly gone out without any cacophonic conclusion or blinding explosion, we simply began to fade into the background. Soon we would go off and blend into the walls of the most elite Universities. Later we would be scuttling around the established society, year after year having less and less will to change it and finally giving up the battle all together.  We would eventually cease to seek for more, losing the need and want to have something beyond our own pathetic existences.  After all of the struggle and bloodshed, we would eventually be forced to accept the status quo; we would see the futility in fighting back.  The ideas that we’d had in our youths would seem like silly fantasies that we once believed we had the power to fulfill.
    So I walked down those hallways for the last time, feeling the blue lockers close in behind me. They seemed to get a little tighter after each step, barricading the possibility of me ever returning.  I didn’t look back; I walked across the hall, passed the English Office, down the stairs and out the front doors. When I reached the outside steps I sat on them with my chin in my hands, staring at the Canadian Flag standing tall in the middle of the upper circle. As it stared down at the miscellaneous cars; it seemed a lonely figure that towered over all that surrounded it as it hung limp like a wet rag because, as it appeared, even the wind had held its breath on this hot summer day.  I sat there basking in the heat, squinting my eyes against the glare of the sun searching incessantly for an explanation for what had just occurred.
    Four years had passed, and in them I had accomplished nothing. I was right back where I’d started.  I had, at this point, lost more than I had gained, cried more than I had laughed, and seen more pain than is possible to put into words.  But, most importantly, I had lied about everything. Yet it was those mendacities that had revealed to me the grandest of all truths: that in the end, it didn’t matter exactly what events had transpired throughout the course of my teenage life; all that mattered was that they had happened, for better or worse.  For all things in life occur in their proper order, whether or not it seems so at the time.
    Those events had led me to be alone at this moment, away from all that I had ever experienced and felt.  Yet it was my own complete solitude that gave me the strength to take another step foreword and go on.  It was this pitiful lonesomeness that, not only then, but throughout my entire life, kept me away from all that could destroy me. It was this, in the end, that had allowed me to be real; my constant loneliness was the only thing that had ever kept me alive.  And it was that, that isolation, that confinement, that’s what was pure and true and attainable; it was that moment of utter and complete impalpability that was indeed, above all things, absolutely beautiful.

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