Four more months. Just four more months and it’s over. I’m done.
And I know that when that moment comes, I’ll be sad. I’ll look back on my university experience and I’ll only see the good moments and I’ll miss them.
Now, I’m just. So. Fucking. Tired.
Now, I’m tired of spending five to six hours a day reading books so dull that they put me to sleep (literally, sometimes).
I’m tired of having to navigate websites for academic research, finding an article that works well for my essay, and then realizing that it doesn’t fit the qualifications set forth by the professor, so I have to start all over again.
I’m tired of having to write the same essay over and over again, because, really, they’re all the same when you get down to it.
But more than that, I’m tired of stressing myself out to the point of tears because I have countless deadlines to maintain. Have to have this reading done for then, have to have this essay written for then, have to have this done by tonight, because if I don’t, then I won’t have time for it later because I’ll too busy with all the other things that I have to get done by a specific deadline.
My life is so flawlessly structured that I don’t even need to be the one living it anymore. I could just tell someone else to follow my schedule, and if they did, nothing would change. I don’t influence anything anymore.
But four months. Four months and that all will change. Four months and I’m free.
And what if that isn’t any better? What if this is just how the world is? What if I can’t escape the stress? The meaninglessness? I mean, isn’t this exactly the problem that every middle-aged white male author has been raving about for centuries? Aren’t I just parroting what every adult has said before me?
But I don’t need to make that my life. I have control over the way I live, and I can change it. I can make it my own. I can force it to become something that makes me happy.
And what about that idea – happiness. What if you aren’t capable of it? Maybe it’s something in your make-up. Something in your anxiety that makes you incapable of ever truly capturing it. Or, hell, what if happiness just isn’t what you always thought it was? In the stories, the prince kisses the princess and they go off together and live happily ever after, but how possible is that, truly? How can a singular event rid you of depression for the remainder of your life?
I have control, though. I’ll force myself to be happy, no matter what.
But what if you can’t? You found something to be miserable about in university, after all. Maybe you’ll find something to be miserable about after university too.
How do you know?
I don’t. But, right now, I really just need to take it on faith, lest I drive myself mad.
Four months. Four months, and I’m free.