Is it absurd to think that the most difficult thing about my Ma will be actively ‘doing’ it?

As in, not simply letting time slip by through distraction after distraction and appeals to the most superficial necessities of my creativity. As in, not ignoring the work and appealing to my base needs in aesthetics and thought?

If I truly think about it this is arguably the most valid form of masters education I could, as an individual, receive, and I find that absurd but infinitely obvious. (which truly is the only way to live)

Of course the final hurdle in educating myself from the world and my self is the ability to do so without pressure or necessity, to produce without push or purpose. To simply produce for as long as my finitude is able to.

I should stop being so angry, start being gentle and calm, not simply to the point of levelheadedness until furious, but i should try to not reach...

I consider the future full of potential. Potential and hope. There’s something promising in the vast number of possibilities I have open to me as a Twenty-One year old living in England coming to the end of their undergrad. Especially considering having grown up in a loving family that moved from South Africa and blossomed. With two sisters having established themselves comfortably in their fields after their respective postgrads and yet there’s something, something not quite.

Here I am. Needing to write essays and a dissertation for a Degree that seems to have reduced me to nothing. A Liberal Arts programme based so resolutely around the head of department’s conceptions of pain and pleasure, that the very modules correspond to chapters out of his book.

I cannot write the essay I must for him because I don’t want to encourage his ego or degree. I cannot write my dissertation either...