anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,
anotherlongshot
anotherlongshot

Don't look back in anger.

I'm going through some of my Year 1 entries - written five years ago - and I think it's pretty sad how I'm feeling almost exactly the same things that I felt during that period.

Just to recap, I considered Year 1 of law school to be the worst year of my life. Of course, that was before I started work; now, I can't decide if starting law school as a 19-year-old who just wanted to dissect literary works all day long is a crueller fate than starting work in the legal profession as a 24-year-old who doesn't quite want to dissect literary works anymore, but can't decide on what she really wants to do (or rather, it's more accurate to say she doesn't have the guts to definitively pronounce on that point. Like anti-activitist judges who are afraid to be seen as legislating for the legislature).

Then again, I think the answer is pretty clear. I'd rather rant all day long about how I had no interest in studying for my Contract Law exam because I find it as interesting as washing the dishes than to feel a sense of dread that clutches at my chest every single fucking day when I think about going to work, or when I see the fucking red light blinking on my fucking Blackberry. On some days, I'm literally afraid to check my email; on other days, I'm literally afraid of going to work.

It's sad how the angst and the unhappiness have remained substantially the same; they've merely taken on different forms. At the heart of it though, I'm still the same 19-year-old drowning in her misery every single day that she had to attend law school.

Except, I'm not - except, I think I'm even more unhappy now, if that's possible. But why not? My time has been monopolised by this false idol* we call work; instead of spending two hours a day feeling completely alienated in Contract lecture, I'm spending more than 9 hours a day feeling absolutely dead inside. And whereas I still had some zest and some spark in my writing back then, nowadays I barely write anymore - and I'm strictly talking about this journal.

(*credit to glasswindow for this wonderful metaphor.)

Oh, I don't even know. I'm combing through my archives in an attempt to understand (or at least to know) why I didn't leave when I had the chance. I was absolutely shattered by Cambridge's rejection; being the over-achiever that I am, I think I banked all my hopes on that school and gave up when it didn't materialise.

That was pretty stupid of me. That was actually really fucking stupid. I really did want to go to Warwick though, if only because the course was Literature and Creative Writing. But King's College London wouldn't have been disastrous either.

I just - I spent an hour crying last night and in my typical emotional state, thought a lot of extreme thoughts, such as what's the point to everything if we're all just gonna die; life is so fucking pointless; I don't want this anymore; but I also latched at the choice that I failed to make and it made me cry even harder. It's so obvious to me now that it was the choice that I should have made; it's really only because law school turned out fantastic in the end, thanks to the awesome electives that I took, AND making Dean's List in Year 4, that I don't completely regret it.

But I do regret it somewhat, and that's enough for me.



*

The problem, though, isn't what I'm going to do about my present situation (it's already answered). The problem is: what am I going to do with the rest of my life?

I still can't choose. I feel like I'm playing Black Jack, staring at the two cards I have laid out on the table and being utterly unable to decide if I want a third card. I thought I wanted to do an LLM; now I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it. If I didn't need to pay an exorbitant amount of money for it, I would go for it without a second thought. But I only have that much money saved. And soon, I won't have that much money coming in every month anymore.

At the same time, I don't want to take a Bachelor's in English. I would've loved this 5 years ago, but now, I think literary criticism is pointless. It doesn't do anything; it doesn't go anywhere; it doesn't contribute anything to the world; it's all masturbatory and self-indulgent and really quite pointless. What I want to do is to write. Maybe I'm wrong about this, but I really don't think I need to study other people's writing in order to write. In any event, I'm quite capable of doing that on my own.

I don't know. I'm a bit of a lazy over-achiever: I want a lot of things, like an Oxbridge/Ivy League education, but I'm too fucking lazy to try or work for anything.

But it's so true, isn't it, what's commonly said about how the things that we cherish are the ones that don't come easy? I don't cherish my current position at all. I don't feel like I had to fight for any of this at all - precisely because I didn't have to. It was just so easy from pupillage onwards.

I hope things get better. I hope things become harder. I hope to be rejected by Cambridge again, just to feel that silencing sense of devastation from wanting something so badly, and failing to get it.

*

In other news, I'm reading Elizabeth Wurtzel's "Prozac Nation". I'm at page 36 and I'm wondering if I can be bothered to continue.

I read books for their literary merit, not for their confessional quality or intricacy of plot. Of course, sometimes even the best of them fail to grasp my attention - I gave up on Martin Amis' "The Pregnant Widow" after 200 pages because I just couldn't take it anymore.

"Prozac Nation" reads like something I can easily write. Therefore, my attention is going to be difficult to sustain. I want to be impressed by a book, to feel at the end of it, or in the midst of it, like I'm an utterly worthless sorry excuse for a writer because I can't possibly hope to write like that. Those are the books that are worth my time. I actually felt that life was more bearable when I was reading Kazuo Ishiguro and Ian McEwan and J M Coetzee and Margaret Atwood; now, I'm back to feeling utterly uninspired and plagued by ennui that leaves me fucking dead inside.

Also, I barely slept a wink the whole night. Maybe it's just difficult to sleep after crying for an hour; but I couldn't sleep at all. I got out of bed at 5 in the morning, watched Roger's WTF match which ended at 6 a.m., then tried to sleep but drifted in and out of sleep and finally got up at 12.30 p.m. I didn't go to work.

I wish every day could be like this - waking up without feeling the stress and pressure of having to go to work. But it's back to work tomorrow. And I've ran out of words to describe my feelings towards that fact.

*

Roger played pretty well. He lost concentration in a few games but eventually prevailed 6-1, 6-4 over Ferrer. I was hoping he'd go up a double break in the second set because the number of games lost count in this round robin format, but Ferrer played well when he had to. Roger had to save break points when serving it out, but it doesn't matter 'cause he won in the end.

I love him. He looks awesome in red.
Tags: angst, books, david ferrer, ian mcewan, kazuo ishiguro, law school, legal profession, life, margaret atwood, martin amis, personal, roger federer, world tour finals (wtf), writing
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