Why School Will Kill Me
For the billionth time, I am telling myself it is selfish to ‘hate’ school. This theme, undoubtedly, has been explored so many times it has become a yawn-worthy cliché. But for everyone who suffers the bout of absolute, suffocating boredom that results from weeks of unbroken lethargy and mental dejection, this feeling will never be ingrained enough to adopt that clichéd sense of ‘been there, done that’. Each and every time this feeling of absolute mental death physically obstructs my breathing, it is nothing short of callous to call it ‘clichéd’ – because it gets more real each time it happens. And as I write this post (ironically in school, actually), I am absolutely seething inside.
For the past week, I have received close to 0 levels of mental stimulation. Why? Because I’ve been bombarded with numbers and dates poised like monsters with their claws waiting at my throat. How am I to explore what I find beautiful in the world when this beast, both self-inflicted and external, continues to follow my gaze?
I understand the merits of having a holistic education during high school. Of not settling down into one ‘specific’ field and exploring all academic subjects, including the sciences even if you may be more of an art aficionado. But recently it’s been getting toxic. I love learning. I learn to love the world. I am addicted to the sensation of knowing I am one step closer to seeing the world as it is, of knowing why we are here, how we work, how we have all come to be. But what I am doing at this wretched place cannot be further from that ideal. Why am I memorizing the most banal concepts of certain subjects – mandatory ones – when I know, for an absolute and irretrievable fact, that I will never use this knowledge again? When I look back on the notes I created for a previous unit, I remembered absolutely nothing at all.
It makes me sick. I am not a goddamn sponge. I am a piece of coral, bright, alive, able to absorb all that gives me life, but if you leave me in the sun to dry I will wither and die.
Rote memorization is an absolute waste of time and if we could all just listen to our philosophers, who argue that time is our most valuable commodity… what are we doing with our education? What are we becoming but monsters, all monsters? I could use this time to do and learn beautiful things, wonderful things, things that will stick with me for eternity, become wonderful tales during dinner conversations and define who I am. I am listening as the seconds, then minutes, then hours, then days, then weeks slip away and this goddamn cage I set up for myself – I cannot give up I cannot give up I cannot give up – a mentality I’ve developed over the years as a coping mechanism to the system I am in… I cannot escape. Whenever I want to read, there are pockets of my brain that are torturing me for not being ‘on task’. Whenever I want to write, I find no inspiration. My life – a palpable, possible, pulsating life – has become a series of tickboxes and lists that I will tick, cross out then throw away in the trash. That’s all it’s worth. Right now.
And you say, perhaps you can change that. Perhaps I could change the way I think, or perhaps I could just grit my teeth and do it already. And I’ve tried. I’m trying. But some feelings are irreversible and it does more damage to try and fix them. It is better to let the pus ooze than keep it coagulated in the soreness of the wound. All I can do now is find a catharsis, write, write, write, try to stimulate who I am and to hell with anyone or anything who tries to get in my way.