I’m currently in a stage where I don’t find it necessary to attend classes any longer. I’m in a stage where I found that debate is just a way for people to defend their selfishness and therefore such mechanism is completely useless. It will only makes me, my classmates, and other students grow even more apart. The goal of making a world a better place would, therefore, be more and more vague.
I’m in a stage that I only finish all my assignments as a part of duty. The system requires me to answer all of its demand so that I could get a piece of paper and a token of appreciation that state:
‘Congratulations, you are a Master of International Politics’.
I’m in a stage that I don’t believe it will help me at all; that it will be no more than a symbol of commodifying education.
I’m in a point where I’m feeling blessed that I’m sick today. By being ill, I will have an excuse to skip two classes or maybe the rest of the week. Sickness is an epiphany; it is my weapon to resist against any assertion articulated by modules, handbooks, and syllabus. Ilness, at least for today, has become my wheel to avoid any compulsion; any constraint.
I don’t want to write any more review. No, I don’t. I don’t want to read any more books, any more articles, papers, somebody else’s essay, or anything. I don’t want to criticize their works so that I could get a recognition from my lecturer that I’m an active and briliant student. I don’t want to make living through criticizing other people’s final result even though I know that they spent years and years of experiment to defend their argument. Leave alone the fact that they abandoned their family, their personal interests, and their happiness during those years.
It is indeed easy for me to blame the system: to say that the system is highly inhumane, that the system is extremely oppresive, and consists of too many contradictions. But somehow, I don’t want to overthink it. I just don’t want to put the blame on something else. I refuse to do it. Instead, maybe – just maybe – the blame is on me. In myself, as a consciouss being, as an individual.
Don’t ask me what’s going on with myself because I don’t know the answer either. I could say that, probably, my boredom comes from my individual resistance against routines. I’m tired of waking up in the morning, taking a shower, taking the 147 route, droping off in front of the University Place, get in to the classroom, having an intense ‘discussion’ with my classmates, go grab a lunch, get in to the next courses, debating, go home, cook my dinner, sleep, and repeat. Can you believe it? A single human being doing exactly the same routine, in which there are twelve activities per routine, for four to five days a week? Have you ever stop for a second to think what it’s all about?
Or else, I could also say that, probably, my boredom is a result of my lack of experience on doing things beside studying. Yesterday, I had a lunch with my dear friend. I asked her about her experience before taking a Master’s programme in Leeds University. She enthusiastically share her stories and experiences she got from working in multiple workplaces. She talks about how her first work has no relevance with her undergraduate degree. Later on she resign from her workplace and decided to travel all around the world, until finally she join a consultancy company that engaged in the field of infrastructure. And finally, she told me that during her period in the company, she fell in love with transport issues and decided to take a Master on transport studies.
I want to be able to share such amount of enthuciasm. I deseperately wanted to. But I know that now – or should I say today – I can’t.