I am exhausted. Exhausted to the extent where I find myself writing an utterly downcast, disheartened blog post on what I otherwise like to consider as my safe haven of hope.
I am not the kind of student who ‘dislikes’ school solely because it may be time-consuming or too dull. Rather, I am the kind of student who legitimately enjoys learning to learn, to know, to apply and to love: I enjoy sitting at my desk at home, passing hour by hour just learning. I enjoy reading to learn, writing to learn; I enjoy living to learn.
But what I do not enjoy are the stifling hours filled by pre-packaged confetti of ‘this-is-what-you-should-do-not-because-you-want-to-but-because-I-want-you-to’. I do not enjoy having exaggerated, bloated imperatives down my throat, the faux cries of how what you give me is what will define me. I do not enjoy blindly forgetting that the next 5 hours I’ll spend will reflect almost nothing in my next 613,200. I do not enjoy not enjoying what I otherwise would have enjoyed if it hadn’t been forced into the hours I would have wanted to spend doing other, more important things to me, things that now cannot be enjoyed in those same hours because somewhere in my mind, there’s a beast that whispers something else ‘more important’ has to be done. I do not enjoy losing what makes me human, and if you claim the bombardment of mind-fatiguing, hair-pulling junk will ultimately make me human, I will simply laugh. Because for many years I thought so too, until I realized something close was far too gone.
I understand that the accumulation of what we do now will morph whatever will come next, and the more I put in the more I’ll get out. I understand that what you want me to do is for my benefit; but what I don’t understand is how your quantity overrides your quality. I don’t understand why I must blindly read 12 pages of a textbook I’ll probably forget only for the sake of satisfying your question to whether or not we ‘did the homework’. I would much rather have read 3 pages properly, and perhaps written a poem at the end of it all to crystallize what I have learnt into beauty, maybe infinity.
And you may say I could have written the poem anyways. You may say I could have set time aside to do the things I love the most, to walk that haphazard beam of balance you call ‘living a positive life’ and walking off at the end with a smile on my face. And I have to admit, it is my fault sometimes. I do sometimes leave things aside, wasting hours away simply because I dread what will come next.
But it is not my fault that I cannot do the things I love. It is not my fault that I am too exhausted, or too uninspired, to write at the wee hours of day when I used to create the most beautiful of thoughts. It is not my fault I find myself drifting off to sleep, only to awake 3 hours later to hate myself for having dreamt. It is not my fault that I gauge the worth of my day not upon how inspired I was, but how far I had gotten in your never-ending to-do list hastily scratched onto post-its that could have been used for other things.
The first few years were beautiful, when you held my hand and helped me walk across expanses I otherwise wouldn’t have known. But now that you leave me in a scorching desert surrounded by the screams of those who no longer walk not beside me but away from me, I cannot see your beauty anymore.
And I regret that.
I really do.
Give me the hours I’ve lost in making me me and perhaps I will feel better today.