Barely skimming the passing mark for one particular midterm paper does not necessary define the failure of a semester, does not necessary paint a black and bleak picture of a disastrous outcome for my finals result, does not necessary spell doom for the subject. It merely tilts the delicate balance between ace and average. But it does highlight in glaring neon colours one crucial fact: I am losing ground. Heck, I am already flailing.
When did this happen? I did not even notice the crack beneath my feet. Perhaps starting last semester’s break? As far as I could tell, ever since the commencement of the May semester, absorbing lessons taught was akin to scooping fine sand into a glass jar with bare hands. My concentration was scattered and unsubstantial.
Sure, I was reading fervently again, lapping up every sort of information but those related to my music studies; I was widening the base of my listening materials, exposing my ears to new genres of songs, though most of them would earn a frown from my semi anti-mainstream lecturers; I was piling up a mountain of songs-to-learn that would have made any piano teacher proud if only it were in lead sheet and not full notation form. What did it mean? Of course, I had blamed my holiday mood then and kept trying to convince myself that my mind would settle down.
Only that it did not. Days trickled by, weeks trundled by, and I could not help but equate attending lectures, slaving for assignments and passing exams to a paid job whereby my paycheck comes in the form of the end-of-term results. I was locked in an inescapable merry-go-round of weekly routines.
But gradually, I formed a growing relationship with my keyboard sitting in my hostel room by practicing during my free time sandwiched between classes and at night, another affair with a certain piano in the maze of practice rooms within the block.
I was progressing well I supposed, albeit half-heartedly, until I messed myself up with a drug. The if-only-I-could-skip-a-semester-to-do-whatever-I-want drug.
I was suddenly intoxicated by the thought of having the luxury of time, the peaceful sleep from resting my head on a pillow of non-existing stress, the recuperation my body needs. All I had to do is sign myself out of college for a term. Call me delusional but I could almost feel the responsibilities peeling away like a snake shedding its old skin.
I want it so badly. I NEED it awfully. Because it is not about shunning from duties, not about soaking up a self-declared vacation in an isolated bubble, not about hibernating to make-up for my sleep-deprived days.
It is about finding my footing again. I nearly dipped under the passing mark for a relatively simple test and that is enough to sound the alarm. To warn myself that I am losing my grip on college reality. I used to be thirsty all the time, for knowledge, the one drink I could never get drunk on. But half a semester is gone and I am still satiated from past term’s input, save piano classes, where I couldn’t stop practicing so that my lecturer would teach me more in the next lesson. Maybe a 4-month break could shatter the wall of the dam and flood my drained mood for learning.
Then again, there is the question of whether I deserve a getaway. An escapade only serves as a catalyst to further encourage prolonged absence from the college scene. Plus, I might turn seeking for motivation to developing the chronic disease of irresponsibility, which I contract even during 2-week holidays.
So, to ditch or not to ditch?
Or I should just sit around and wait and try to untangle myself from the strains of this impulsive notion. Who knows it is nothing more than a cotton candy, the idea tempting and inviting but melts the moment it touches the tongue of reality.
“Shutting off the thought process is not rejuvenation; the mind is like a car battery – it recharges by running.” – Bill Watterson.
I shall take your words for now and strive on.
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