Sarahbellum

The meanderings of a mind
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2001-04-20 14:29:30 (UTC)

Expectations

I am in the Honors Program at UK. Why I listened to my
best friend when she told me to apply, I will never know.
Apparently I am intelligent enough to get into the program,
but not intelligent enough to pass the class. Honors is
about three courses put together, so while it is worth
three credit hours, the class consumes at least nine
hours. Add that to the 19 total credit hours and I am two
full time students. What horror is this life. In high
school I had to write papers, I was in college credit
courses. Yet never have I been faced with such hell as
this class. I read a book a week, and not the easy R.L.
Stine books of old. Books that are so indebth and so
brimming with words I don't comprehend and concepts as
foriegn to me as moon dust they bring me to tears. I have
read pieces of the bible while I have little religious
experience aside from this semester's class. I have read
of dirty desert monks that roll in briars and bite off
their own tongues in effort to combat all sexual desire. I
have read the confessions of St. Augustine, a man that says
one thing, yet repeats and rephrases this one thing until
it seems you have read a thousand pages of nothing, and you
still don't understand the point he has said in everyway
possible. When those email surveys ask who you would like
to meet, dead or alive, I have to say St. Augustine. I
would like to strangle him with my bare hands, perhaps bite
his tongue off or roll him through briars as well? I think
possibly this is a glorified class of ancient religion.
Or maybe I am studying to be a priest and I did
not know it? Whatever be the case, I have learned one thing.
There is a hell. However, I don't believe there is a universal hell, only
individual hells. I have found my own personal hell.
My first paper I was quite proud of was
returned to me, desecrated by the third letter of the alphabet. A
letter I had not seen on any other papers, aside from
Honors, a letter that dashed my hopes and dreams and all
thoughts that I was perhaps more than average. That I was
somewhat intelligent. Yet the destruction of peace of mind
does not end there. The comments my professor so enjoys to
write. "This was very disappointing." This comment has
appeared on everything I have written in the class.
Everything. I should be used to it by now. I'm not. Each
time my eyes scan the page looking for the expected, "Much
improved." Those four little words ripe at my soul. Stab
into my mind. Perhaps they mean the same as, "You are very
stupid." Whatever they mean, they steal my ability to have
faith in myself, my ability to sleep. I have nightmares
about those C's, those dissapointed words. Again today
another masterpiece of stupidity was returned. Again,
those all too familiar words, that all too familiar and
even more hated letter. My dream is to write, write novels
that others will want to read, read and get lost in, read
and fall in love with. However, I continue to lose more
faith and my dream is now jagged and torn around the edges
and I wrap it around me, but it has been so tattered that
there is barely enough dream left to keep me warm. Perhaps
if everything I do does not meet my professors standards
than they are too high. Should everyone have the same
standards? Does everyone have the same background? Should
anyone be the same? Sameness can only be found in a
perfect world. A utopia, and that can not be reached
because people are DIFFERENT. I am not God, I could never
dare try. Why? Why? Why? Why can this man, this
professor, expect so much that I have found it impossible
to meet his expectations. These great expectations that
hover always miles above my ever reaching finger-tips. It
is said that when you reach as high as you can, you can
always reach a little higher, because you can push onto
your tip-toes, stretch a little taller. I have reached as high as
I can. I have gotten the highest ladder, climbed
onto the highest mountain and reached with everything I am
made of, and I can't even get high enough to brush my
fingers across these expectations. Nothing is impossible?
Wrong. There are many impossibilities in life. Anyone who
thinks not deludes themselves. However, the joy does not
come with overcoming the impossibility of something, but in
knowing you tried. You bled and cried and put your life up
for this one thing, and so you didn't get it...It was
impossible. You tried. I have tried. And when there was
no more trying to try. I tried. So now, beaten and
battered and bruised and whimpering I come to the
conclusion: IT IS IMPOSSIBLE. And all that is left of my
dream is this tiny spark that burns somewhere in the debths
of my heart that is barely enough to keep me from freezing
in this cold and bleak life.


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