Sometimes I am not sure what I am training myself for. Why did I come for a master’s program? To learn to be a good writer. Am I a better writer? No, I am a much worse writer. What is it that I am learning? I am learning an authoritative structure, a hierarchy, a methodology. I am learning an artificial system that organizes the world to a tidier comportment.
What is the point of organizing? In times of frustration, I often think about it. I used to hate it to the point that I would scatter my things back after cleaning my room. What about now? I am not sure. Although the first step before debunking anything is to understand it, I am not sure if I am still up to debunking it, seeing how intertwined I am with that structure. Sometimes I am even attracted to it, willfully diving into its comfort, enjoying the dream that is collectively woven by generations of smart people.
And I am bearing the consequences of my behavior all the time. I read more literature review than literature, and I smirkingly indulge in oversimplifying everything I have the pleasure of observing. Feeling smart is alluring, because it argues against my obvious dumbness, and legitimizes my existence.
The “-ism”s are like lighthouses, pulling strayed navigators closer, and hinting at something absolute, eternal, and certain. The more desperate a sailor is, the eager they are towards the point of the light. I am that sailor, angered by my lack of talent, driving full speed to the end of my ability to write anything at all.
This is my confession.