This year is my last one as an undergraduate student.
I could say everything that had already been said: I want to run and hide, I don’t want to be another cog in the machine, I want to make a difference, I don’t want to be bent. It sounds overused and cliché, even though it’s exactly how it is.
I feel like possibly everyone in my position feels: anxious, incomplete and generally screwed. Everything was fine when I was at school (actually that’s a lie; it’s just my memory playing that game of forgetting all things bad about the past so we can feel safe in our nostalgia). Everything was sort of fine when I started life as an undergraduate at my university. Sometimes I forget about all the terror that every step in my life already caused me. But I’m here to say that, once again, I feel the same way I felt about changing schools (twice) and about entering the university.
I chose to get a Bachelor degree in a course called “Letras” (Letters or Languages), that involve learning linguistics, literature and translation, because, to put it simply, I like words. I’ve always liked them, I’ve always been fascinated by their power, their ability to convey this wide range of feelings, ideas, and fantasies.
There were people who thought I was wasting potential and doing something that is useless to humankind, useless to me even. I don’t know how to answer to those people, because after so many years hearing that, I’m starting to almost believe that all that was for nothing. See? That’s just how powerful words can be.
And to be honest, I never had a gift with words as some people have; I can’t convince anyone of something I believe, and I can’t talk without leaving the impression that I’d rather be in any other place than talking to someone. So I bet some people think it’s ironic that I chose to work with words. I certainly do.
Ever since high school I’ve been complaining that the most difficult thing to find in the whole world is an adult, in the sense that no one seems to take responsibility for nothing, it’s all a giant finger-pointing and “it was someone else’s fault”, “I’m like this because God/aliens/the society”, everyone seems so concerned about every little unimportant detail. (To be fair, my own world is so small that “everyone” amounts to a small number of noisy individuals.)
It turns out as much as I like pointing at this problem, I’m exactly like that. If I wasn’t so self-conscious, I would certainly find someone to blame (the government/Church/homosexuals/pagans/Jews/Muslims/God/Satan/science/sharks/zombies/women/men/elders/mutants etc.). I just can’t; without knowing whether this is a good or a bad thing, I learned that assuming my own mistakes doesn’t make me an adult either. I’m still lacking.
In the same way that liking words doesn’t make me good with them, and liking Japanese culture doesn’t make me a pro in understanding it.
Some days I just wonder if I’ve ever been good in anything.
Tomorrow I’ll be fine, though.