I’m writing this post from the corner table of the upper floor of the student union building, which incidentally is where I seem to spend most of time, whilst arguing with a friend who hasn’t been to a lecture this semester about attendance. And I’m struck by the sudden realisation that this year, the first year of my degree, is all but over.
I have a week left. One week of lectures, and seminars, and spending evenings laughing until I cry with my flatmates. One week and then Easter. Easter and then exams. And thats it. Year 2.
I am one week, and one exam away from being a third of the way through my degree.
I’m thinking back on the A’level student I was and realising I must have grown up quite a bit, but I’m also thinking of the 2nd years I used to work with who treat me like a child, and I can’t help but think, maybe both are wrong. I’ve definitely changed, grown up perhaps, but I don’t feel older, I don’t even really feel more capable. I feel… OK. And I also don’t feel like a child, I don’t feel like I’m gonna come back in September and be able to treat first years like infants. Cause we’re not all that different.
I guess what I getting at here is that, next year is the second year of living independently, of being in charge of myself and my life. Next year I move into a house I found and signed for. Next year counts. And I honestly can’t wait for it. Yet, I feel like I’m not old enough, or capable enough, or adult enough for that to be happening.
A little existentialism to liven up your early afternoon