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    Reflect

    Monday, January 28, 2008

    The thing about working with kids is that it can be tiring and long, at times frustrating, but fun at the same time. Interacting with them makes me smile at their nonsense and makes me feel young (although that's not really an advantage but nevermind).

    But then the lack of epiphanies of any sort in my life makes me feel rather stagnant, even though according to the date, the year passes so quickly and I know I'm older by the day. As much as I find joy in what I do now, I really dislike feeling like I haven't progressed at all these past few months.

    I miss school.

    I know it's ironic because the environment now is generally the same, but I kind of wished I was one of them - still studying something and getting excited at some newfound discovery that I never heard of before and yet struggling with the rest over a difficult theory like Pierre Nora's piece on Memory.

    It's funny how when I was at school, like many of my classmates and my kids now, I used to wish that I would quickly graduate and start working life, but then now that I'm on the other side of the fence, things seem clearer to me than before: I really don't want to stop studying.

    On hindsight, I also realised that maybe if I had started studying what I enjoyed studying from the start, maybe this realisation would have hit me much earlier. Perhaps fate has played a cruel joke on me and now I'm back where I missed out on the part of my education the most. Now I even look on at my kids in amazement, at how they refuse to be enthusiastic about Austen or the various poems that are in store for them, and I can't imagine myself being like them.

    Didn't Literature start out as an indulgence for the upper classes back then in England? Isn't it a greater challenge when a play or poem cannot be easily understood such that students of Literature should strive to make the most meaning out of it? Where have all these values gone to today?

    I can't explain where all this bemoaning originated from. Perhaps it's one of the withdrawal symptoms from Murakami's short stories, or the increasing lack of high level activity in the brain that is causing this. But mostly, it's probably the fear that if I stop thinking critically I will be brutally reduced to just anyone, a nobody.

    Obviously my identity holds on to a lot more than I think, and it's time I think I should reflect.


    9:51 pm
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