I accidentally deleted every single shred of academic writing I've produced over the last fewsome years and I can't decide if it's a big deal or not a deal at all. It is moments like these that my feet, by reflective pause, touch bottom and the current splits around me. What does it feel like? Astonishingly cold? Hostile? Swift, Melancholy or Bittersweet? This writing represents so much work -- bloody, sweaty and profoundly frustrated and sad work -- but does it have heart? Did that essay on Gatsby (always gatsby!) matter to me, heartwise?
I'm a vigilant underskilled perfectionist and an arrogant gifted procrastinator in the same turn. I am not in-between, but am exactly 100% bastard of this spectrum. The thing is, I've been in school while interpreting post-secondary for so long that I speak fluent academia. I decipher syllabi with preternatural accuracy, and I cannot do less than I am called upon to do. C to an A -- IT WILL NEVER MATTER, they say, GO EASY ON YOURSELF. But it matters to me. In that way, I am a predator.
Once I graduate, I just go back to being a mom who interprets in the class room. Nothing will change. The grade matters not at all, if not less than that. The writing that I've lost, my work, is summarily dismissed upon submission of the grade, that again, matters not at all. Still, it matters to me. Futilely. Since grades have been submitted, should I care? Agh!
So I ran. It's the only thing I can do. And I couldn't stop bracing myself against the rotation of the earth. I don't know what is coming, but I'm throwing myself against its arrival. For 7 miles it was one ankle calf and quad with torque leading me straight. Why am I fighting the world? And while I'm asking, why don't my A grades matter? Why doesn't my work matter? Does it matter? Fuck!
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