I find myself where I always have been, (academically, anyway). Relinquishing myself to countless schedules, deadlines, and other assorted, very familiar, annoyances. Well, up to the present I’ve found them annoyances but, in reality, they are dismantling agents for a very real, very true aspiration of mine. An aspiration that I am sure I feel more strongly about than any other aimless youth might feel about theirs. What a travesty.
I don’t consider myself slothful, especially when attempting to fulfill something– anything relating to my passion, and, in my opinion, my only purpose, my only expectation. But in the seemingly futile quest to learn more about the only subject that truly interests me, I find myself swept along into countless detours of the unrelated: Science, Mathematics– Leadership Skills?! These unnecessary building blocks might cause my, and countless others’ demise. It’s so forced– interest always feigned for a professor in order to excuse yourself in case of an absence or a fuck-up. It almost seems like any youth in my situation is conditioned away from any romanticism, anything greater than, (in the most elementary and sometimes intermediate levels of secondary education), the absolutely mundane. It just feels like any time spent in this predicament is entirely wasted. I feel I should devote myself entirely to my field. It feels like we’re indirectly deterred from anything that sparked that one true love for a subject– the unnecessary becomes everything in the general, very necessary modus operandi. My feelings, which at the moment are all I have in this search for the writing are atrophied, misplaced, and unvarying.
Where are the insightful professors ready to comfort me through an existential crisis brought on by a book they recommended? Where are the thought-provoking assignments full of originality and creativity? Oh, hang on. I know where they are– or should I say, where they might be; they’ll come in 2 years. After countless Mathematics, Science, and what they call “General Education” courses. Fuck that.
But hey, it simply must be done, right? My only consolations are the people I read and, of course, the things I write.
Fresh Air From The Age 
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