The fifteen minutes of our senior project presentation went by like the water from the Stillwater River under the bridge connecting Old Town from the rest of Orono. Like, really fast. Like, a kayak going over the dam and into the rush of rapids ten feet below probably would not survive. Yes. That fast. And among the flurry of data we didn't get to present, and questions we really couldn't answer, I realized that I'm almost done. School's almost over for me, just one more year left to go, and yet, there's a sort of survival mechanism in which I've indulged. I'm here for one more year, when I could cut that date to a semester. Why do I stay? What am I afraid of? Do I really love school that much, or do I want to stay solely because I don't know much else? I don't know. I've come to a horrible revelation: there are things that I wake up and try to remember, but can't. Some of it's trivial, like how many shots of amaretto to use for a tiramisu recipe, or where I put my E and M exams. Some of it is moderately important, like that feeling I got on one of my father's submarines; like the invincibility I used to feel when I was a kid dressed as Spiderman. And there are some things that are so devastatingly important which I've completely forgotten. The feeling of my first kiss. My mother's face. The feeling of not having a care in the world, and the wonder that used to accompany me wherever I went. I've forgotten the sound of my best friends' voices. I've forgotten pieces of my life that, if I had them back, I'd replay and rewind over and over and over again, until the tape ran off the reels or dirtied my VCR heads or until I snapped the tape altogether and had to repair it with Scotch tape, jutting every last trace of flavor from the lemon, every last drop of blood from the stone. What will happen to the things I forget? Will they mercilessly be replaced by the things I think I need to know right now? How much vacant space goes to things I care nothing about? And why is it that I can remember the speed of light to every significant figure, yet I can barely remember how it feels to slow dance with the girl who you happen to meet one weekend? Aren't these the memories I'm supposed to keep? Are my memories data? Zeroes or ones? Are they pictures, with blurry lines and vibrant colors? Who knows? I don't anymore. I have such a hard time seeing the lines, that there's no line in between to read. It all dissolves into a grey area where I can barely notice the difference. Now, I have to go home, after another long year of work. I've never been more scared of losing sight of the best parts of me, or the things I hold most dear. I've never been more scared of living life as a living dead man, never been more scared of the robotic life ahead that awaits so many of us. For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm losing my humanity, and I'm scared to death for every second.