Hemingway was right. Writing is easy.

You just sit at a typewriter and bleed. And bleeding starts with honesty.

You see, when I started at ULM I saw university as a formality, something I had to do to show everyone else in the world that I knew everything I said I knew.

Thankfully, the university had other plans because this institution broke apart a boy and a built a man.

I’d like to think I had the general college experience, but as I come even closer to walking across the Fant Ewing stage, I see that the past four years have been more than an experience. They’ve been a revelation.

My years here stripped away the layers of my personality.

By my sophomore year I still held the belief that it was formality, but I was learning things I didn’t know.

By the time my junior year rolled around, the freshman illusion that I held so dearly shattered like a champagne flute dropped in surprise.

The Greek word for revelation is apokaluptō so maybe apocalypse better describes my time here.

Within these walls I faced deception, heartbreak, failure, and I tasted for the very first time the bitterness of apathy.

Equally, ULM fostered new growth in me.

I put away the expectations I once held. I learned to move past my failures and shortcomings onto something greater.

I no longer cling to my old ideals, but once again I’m an idealist, albeit a learned one.

The wisdom shared by my professors, the kindness given to me by my adviser, the ruthless expectations of my department, these things shaped me into the person I’ve become. I would not be here as I am today were it not for them and their patience with precocious freshmen.

But I would be remiss if I didn’t talk about my experience as an editor and writer for this publication. Nothing taught me more than working for The Hawkeye.

It’s where I learned to tell stories, to connect with other people on a deeper level. It’s where I found myself and God, and most importantly it’s where I learned to be honest.

The first step in writing well, learning, being a decent human being or growing is to be honest with yourself.

How can the words move you to tears, how can your mind grow and you become the person you’re meant to be if you lack the fundamental spark that sets a fire to burn in you for the rest of your life?

I’m writing all of this as a bit of a last hurrah. After years of writing for this paper, this is my final column.

But I also wanted to share with my fellow seniors in hopes that we all may reach some type of public catharsis before we brave the great unknown. However, this column is pointedly for the underclassmen.

Let go of yourselves, folks.

Embrace the pain. Yes, it is painful. Dying hurts.

But rising from the ashes of your old self stands as the monument to your strength for the rest of your life.

And get used to it. This won’t be the last time you die. A good life is full of death to the old.

Listen to your professors. Put away the laptops and cell phones and engage the material. It’s not about passing. It’s about learning and through learning, living.

Find your passion. Find that spark and guard it with all of your might. Don’t be afraid to bend and burn.

When you play with the fire of life, burns will happen. But you’ll heal.

Live passionately. Learn fervently. Love without ceasing. Seek the connections between yourself and the world and never put the light of your life under a bushel.

Transitions are painful, but within it lies greatness.

So write the story of your life on the walls of the world and join with me in remembering our time by the bayou’s tranquil waters.