Edited by: Pratyusha Gupta
While I’m buried in the readings for my next literature class and worrying about the frequently held surprise quizzes, I can’t help but wonder when I last read purely for pleasure. Reading used to be something I was passionate about—an immersive experience—but now, it seems as if all the joy that it had previously offered has slowly dissipated in the 75 days that I have spent here. I oftentimes look at the novels on the library shelves, feeling the same desire that I felt in my childhood for the things that I wanted but could not ask for. I attempt to satisfy myself with the mere sight of those splendid books, each of them beckoning me to immerse myself in their stories. After all, how can I even think of reading those novels when I still have copious amounts of work left? I deceive myself, promising to read them later, while being consciously aware of the fact that it is only a lie that I’ve been telling myself for days. Perhaps I have now even lost my fervent passion for reading and will never be able to read with the same intensity as before. It is disheartening to even think about it; however, I let the thought float freely in my mind. It loiters briefly until I push it away with the explanation that only academic validation can actually bring me lasting joy. Honestly, I no longer know the validity of that statement, but I dare not argue with myself.
My thoughts drift back to my readings and the laptop that stands in front of me. Skimming through the pages of the texts, I realize that we have poems assigned for this week. They manage to evoke a sense of deep nostalgia within me. I reminisce about the bliss of reading poems and the sweet resonance that they have always had. I also think of my anonymous Tumblr blog, which was my sanctuary for my emotions. The blog that I religiously posted content on is now only a distant memory. I sometimes wish to write poetry, but it now seems as far away as home is—an infinitesimal star shining in the extended sky. It seems as if the words have betrayed me, or maybe it is just that they are no longer as meaningful as they once were. The emotional depth that they carried has now vanished. Words are mere words; rationality and logic take precedence over emotions. But one question lingers in my mind: Is it the words who have betrayed me, or is it just myself? I divert my attention and glance at the time on my screen, fleeing the question that has now begun to haunt me.
It is 9:00 p.m. I should head to the mess for dinner, I tell myself. However, the food here makes me miss home even more. Images of the spicy chicken gravy lovingly prepared by my mother flash before my eyes. I miss homemade food, and I miss cooking as well. I used to religiously cook at home, meticulously following my mother’s steps and sometimes even experimenting with new recipes. It was a delightful way to spend my time, vibing with my mother or even enjoying my own company, and if I dare accept, pretending to have a YouTube channel decoding countless recipes, all while talking to myself, of course. Cooking brought with it a sense of calm, easing the stressful thoughts that otherwise occupied my mind. Unfortunately, as is the case with my other hobbies, I have lost touch with cooking. I know there is a pantry on my floor that I can cook in, but could it really replace the one at home? Cooking is a comforting activity, one that I used to indulge in within the space I called home. Now I do not wish to engage in it somewhere else. I do not know if this makes sense to anyone, or even to myself. Nevertheless, I do not try to reason with myself anymore.
I do not recognize myself these days; it feels like I am estranged from who I used to be. All this unfamiliarity of college has bred unfamiliarity within me. I am losing touch with my interests, and I am losing touch with myself. The things that I once loved are the things that I no longer have time for. All I think about are my courses and their grades. If I feel particularly generous, I might even consider my college extracurricular activities. I am so fixated on building an impressive profile for my future that I have forgotten to acknowledge the person that I was a few months ago. This single-minded pursuit of academic validation is making me shed other parts of my identity, losing the colorful tapestry that I had built over my childhood years. The question I had previously attempted to divert finds its way back to my mind: Am I betraying my own self in this relentless pursuit of success?