Have you ever had one of those unnecessary existentialist moments? You know what i’m talking about, those 30 second snippets when you take yourself out of the task at hand and distance yourself. Why am I doing this? Is there a purpose? Is all this effort worth the reward at the end? I mean, “Me reweth, Marye, thy faire rode” is enough to give anyone an existential crisis, right?
The truth is it’s not worth it. I attend lectures five days a week, and work my part-time job testing phones and selling consoles intermittently between lectures and on the weekends. When i’m not viciously scribbling down notes in my seminars, or serving rude and undeserving customers, i’m sat in my room, hunched over my handouts, revising or writing up assignments. And that piece of paper, that “degree” status, is NOT, and never will be worth it.
I guess by now you’re wondering, “But Jade, why are you still at university if you don’t deem the degree as worth the work?”
Simply because I am caught in a love that seldom man will ever understand.
I am in love, with Austen. I am in love, with Hardy. I am in love, with Shakespeare, Carter, Poe, Koyczan and everyone in between. The satirical humour and wit in Much Ado About Nothing, is enough to make even the most turgid morsel giggle, and the way Thomas’ The Burning Baby makes my stomach twist in a manner no other story could is glorious. I don’t think that a piece of paper, at the end of my three years is enough, but I have already accumulated more than I will ever deserve in literary knowledge, and understanding, and I have already felt a love for books that I can only describe as…