Very tired. Convinced I am going to fail. Concerned that I will be unemployed for foreseeable future. Desperate for another haircut. These are all sensations that I am currently experiencing.
If my entire life is one very long day, then this is the late-morning dip before elevenses. Knowing whether to be confident or despairing has always been a problem of mine, and those moods have fluctuated with rhythmic consistency during my time at Oxford. If it’s hard to guess, my mood is currently closer to the latter. Try as I may to read Milton’s Aeropagitica, I can’t get past the first few paragraphs. i just stare dumbly at the page and start to wonder what the weather is like, outside, amongst the birds and the trees and the running water…
At the same time, I have to tolerate the flood of Instagram pictures that show my fellow English finalists engaging in mock-hilarious intellectual coitus with texts that I have never heard of, let alone considered. Congratulations guys, I really hope that your maniacal colour coding and psychopathically systemic annotations work out for you. I’ll just continue to sit here, staring at paragraph five of Aeropagitica, wishing it was an episode of Game of Thrones, or anything else which I understand/enjoy.
And, of course, on top of all that, I have to worry about next year. Calling it ‘next year’ is something that everyone does, partly because we’re still indoctrinated in the schoolchild mentality - where units of time are governed by ‘years’ - and partly because calling it ‘next year’ is a form of lexical self-denial. ‘Next year’, of course, means the rest of my life. ‘Next year’ is the year that the sequential progression is broken; where being 21-years-old stops informing people of how far through life you really are.
There’s a baby in a red high-chair in this café and it keeps staring at me with a look of disappointment. It’s not even smiling at me. In a horror movie, that’d be a big clue that I’m either a serial killer or a ghost.
If I could fast-forward through the next two months, I probably would (even though I’d be really scared that I’d die in hyper-speed). Not because I’m scared of the exams themselves - worryingly, I’m not an historic worrier about exams - but because I want to get past the point of no return, so that I can stop wondering whether there is/was more than I can/could do. The moment I hang up my sub-fusc at the end of May, I promise not to regret, or even consider, these long, futile days of ambling revision.
But that seems a long time away. Until then, please use the ‘About’ section to find details on how to offer me a job.