I've realized of late, that I most desperately anticipate the end of my schooling life. Not because I am eager to begin a lucrative career in the field of history (insert sarcasm,) nor because I am excited to escape what has come to feel like an overly adolescent Provo scene. Neither would it be due to stiflingly boring college classes (not all of them, mind you) nor the stuffy, didactic lecturers who never once toss a single, non-rhetorical question my way.
Mostly, I just want to read Time magazine without feeling guilty.
Lately, each time I have allowed myself to be transported to the tragically sublime world of "Into the Wild," I can't help but feel my curious delight begin to languish away due to the guilt that slowly creeps into my subconscious. All recreational reading becomes tainted in the face of the "higher priorities" that I am neglecting. It is like drinking a delicious glass of juice, and as the final dregs are sliding down my throat, I spot the filthy crust ensconced in the bottom of the glass, that has surely permeated all that I have just swallowed. It is the piece of toast consumed, that afterwards during the resealing twist of the bread bag, I realize surely had as much mold as the rest of the slices.
I'm tired of tainted recreational reading.
I wont even start on the cognitive dissonance that I feel every time I write a new blog. Well, maybe I will. I am starting to wonder if I should have been an English major. I've certainly done enough writing as a history major to warrant the depletion of a small forest. Probably a forest full of baby animals, now all homeless and cold due to my historical arguments. How many baby birds have been stepped on, and crushed into a miasma of bone, blood, and viscera due to a lack of higher nesting locations? I shudder to imagine how many small animals have been killed on my account, all for the sake of a writing style that will do me absolutely no good in the future. I mean if every time I wrote a blog an entire burrow of baby rabbits was flooded, I suppose I could shoulder that mental responsibility. I actually enjoy writing blogs. But the mayhem caused by my research papers...sickening.
What is one to do when they arrive at the threshold of their life, and realize that maybe they should have built a different house?
I guess all I can do is pick and choose a bit more carefully in the future which baby animals to kill, and for what reason to kill them.