Students, distinguished members of the editorial team, and fellow content creators at UCLA, as one of few graduate students writing among a network of tomorrow's leaders who's dose of the world beyond has yet to extend beyond manicured quads, the silent bliss of libraries, buildings arched towards the sky like immaculate ivory towers guarding its populace from the assaults of 9-5s, mortgages, and 401k's, and 500 page textbooks on history and psychology -- recounting events and worries current as of yesterday -- I shall temporarily set aside my contemplation of how I have been in school for what is starting to seem like antiquity, and attempt to impart some wisdom, if, by chance, I have any at 27, and if not, a form of encouragement concerning the travail known as undergraduate education. Which for many of you, is an ongoing, if not current event, even as I labor away at something you might read, or pass up in favor of a voice reciting creeds and lore more in sync with your generation. If time is capable of anything asides from rushing towards a place where it no longer has to, different places are where its made a habit of leaving people.

Truthfully though, the further one ventures forth into age, and into time -- even as the color begins to fade from his head long before he must pass with the turn of the hour -- the more it feels like staring at a page. A page where its margins and lines are colored with words that give color to everything. Words that echo, sing, and dance. Gliding upon a surface as pale as ice. Swinging, swaying, and leaping with a grace the svelte tip of a pen designed them to be read, spoken, and heard.

But as the shadow beneath the minute hand draws nigh the turn of the hour, sundering from the present a second, a minute that can never be had again, so to recedes the ink marking the page never to return again. Like the suffocating of blood to leave behind a pallid face. Suffocating until the words can no longer dance, sing, let alone echo. Can no longer be read, spoken, and heard. Leaving behind a blank page starved as a bone crumbling into dust. Crumbling into nothing. Void of meaning. Of existence. Concerning who we are. Who we were and who will be.

But like grass smothered beneath the snow in the dead of winter, amidst the thaw dwells a chance to spring. To grow. To rise against the mire. To bloom in a way that has not been bloomed before. Similar to how faded words can be rewritten. Redefined so they can mean again. Mean more, mean stronger, and mean until they exist again. Exist where they echo, sing, and dance. Echo, sing and dance until they are heard, spoken of, and read about. Heard, spoken of, and read about by people left together in different places. People in different places once again reminded of who they are. Who they were. And what they can be.

Nevertheless, who you are, and whatever you aspire to become, whether its a doctor, a lawyer, or someone alive for nearly three decades who chooses to stick around school a little longer to linger among silent libraries and manicured quads, don't underestimate the power of your words. Your voice. Though what it means to others is amenable to time, the oscillation of the minute hand doesn't mean it has to change what it means to you. It is you. And that's something a 500 page textbook on Psychology and History recounting worries and events current as of yesterday cannot define as much as it shapes. You are the current events. So pick up that svelte tip pen. Make yourself happen.

Sincerely,

One of many people who has known much, but still knows nothing. Who is not entirely lost, but wanders still.