Hump Day
Well, I've made it through Wednesday. The rest of the week should go much easier.
Sometimes I can't help but feel like the character Boxer from Orwell's Animal Farm. For those who don't remember, he's the dumb, strong horse that worked endlessly until he died and was sent off to the glue factory.
If it were not for law school, I don't know how I'd make it. Right now, the only thing sustaining my drive is knowing that I only have eleven and a half weeks of teaching left. In truth, I don't see how some people can slave away for years for next to nothing and still retain a sense of hope. Such persistence in the face of adversity might be both the greatest and worst trait humanity has to offer.
I've always felt that my intelligence was more a curse than a blessing, to be honest. I think I'm just smart enough to realize my plight but too dumb to do anything about it. There are many instances when I look at the students in my first period class and think, "Boy, I wish I could just play a video game for two hours and find happiness." Sometimes, ignorance truly is bliss.
The people who I think are really intelligent are the innovators and entrepreneurs in our society; my intelligence, on the other hand, is nothing more than a heightened sense of everyday perception. In other words, I'm smart enough to get the gold star but not rise above the system that awards said gold star.
There's one more thing that binds me to mediocrity; I think I'm afraid of pushing myself to the limit artistically because if I fail, I'll have nothing left. I wrote a novel and sent it to twenty different publishers (it was rejected) and then I just dropped it. I haven't touched it in months. I think that if I just retreat and give up then I can use that as an excuse. But writing- this thing that I love so- is also the only thing that torments me and dances on the edge of my brain.
A writing career is the only thing I really want professionally, and the only thing in my life I'm desperately trying to avoid. I can't count how many empty Sundays I've sat and told myself that today will be the day I sit down and write for three straight hours without interruption- but I let other things get in the way and make only ineffectual protests as the time dwindles away. And I tell myself, "I'll do it next week."
Yet it never happens.
I'm beginning to think the future doesn't exist- only the undiscovered present.
Sometimes I can't help but feel like the character Boxer from Orwell's Animal Farm. For those who don't remember, he's the dumb, strong horse that worked endlessly until he died and was sent off to the glue factory.
If it were not for law school, I don't know how I'd make it. Right now, the only thing sustaining my drive is knowing that I only have eleven and a half weeks of teaching left. In truth, I don't see how some people can slave away for years for next to nothing and still retain a sense of hope. Such persistence in the face of adversity might be both the greatest and worst trait humanity has to offer.
I've always felt that my intelligence was more a curse than a blessing, to be honest. I think I'm just smart enough to realize my plight but too dumb to do anything about it. There are many instances when I look at the students in my first period class and think, "Boy, I wish I could just play a video game for two hours and find happiness." Sometimes, ignorance truly is bliss.
The people who I think are really intelligent are the innovators and entrepreneurs in our society; my intelligence, on the other hand, is nothing more than a heightened sense of everyday perception. In other words, I'm smart enough to get the gold star but not rise above the system that awards said gold star.
There's one more thing that binds me to mediocrity; I think I'm afraid of pushing myself to the limit artistically because if I fail, I'll have nothing left. I wrote a novel and sent it to twenty different publishers (it was rejected) and then I just dropped it. I haven't touched it in months. I think that if I just retreat and give up then I can use that as an excuse. But writing- this thing that I love so- is also the only thing that torments me and dances on the edge of my brain.
A writing career is the only thing I really want professionally, and the only thing in my life I'm desperately trying to avoid. I can't count how many empty Sundays I've sat and told myself that today will be the day I sit down and write for three straight hours without interruption- but I let other things get in the way and make only ineffectual protests as the time dwindles away. And I tell myself, "I'll do it next week."
Yet it never happens.
I'm beginning to think the future doesn't exist- only the undiscovered present.
posted by Yorick at 7:00 PM
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