When I first moved into my college dorm, I adorned my walls with pictures of high school friends. As I lie in bed at night, staring at my wall, attempting to break the wired until three am cycle my body has become accustomed to, I see attempts to capture what were once thought to be the best moments of my life. I see myself, hair pulled up in curls, body flattered in a sparkly prom dress. I see the smiles and hugs of people who made up my life for four years. As I lie, vainly attempting to drift into sleep, I realize I know none of these people. I have kept in contact with few of them and those relationships that I have attempted to retain seem awkwardly different in some unexplainable way. They don’t know me. They once knew a portion of me, a work in progress, which was unaware of its state of constant growth. I am still a work in progress. The difference lies in my knowledge of that fact. High school was a very important time in my life. I struggled through more than many. I learned a lot. At least, I thought so then. High school, however, was far from the most important or best time in my life. My first year of college has taught me that the stupid little song my high school algebra teacher taught me to remember the quadratic formula really does work. It has taught me that reading material honestly is a prerequisite for discussing it and that the methodology of public speaking is based solely upon the intended audience. Above all of this, if my first year of college has taught me anything, it has taught me this: I know nothing. I learned many important things in high school, things that I should never forget, but there is so much more to learn. In the amazingly broad base of knowledge, what I have learned, what I know, amounts to nothing.

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