The silence that follows

The subject that ate up close to 80% of my time this semester just ended regular classes yesterday. I have been expecting it for weeks now – that we would be done early with the course that was the plague of my semester. Back then the feeling of it all ending was pure happiness. Yet as the days passed, it was not the clarity of happiness that filled me but the darker shades of some kind of ambivalent bittersweetness. That class has always been a love and hate relationship for me. It began with hate, but with enough time the two just flow into each other. Either way, the hours I lost from the toil of handwriting notes cannot but take pieces of me along with the ink left behind on the paper. A man’s work cannot but take part of the man with it I suppose.

During the first weeks, I would complain and complain at the amount of time spent on a class such as this. It was an ordeal, no doubt, and one that was in every sense of the word – painstaking. Pain always steals the show because most of the time I was too close to it to see anything else. Maybe I had to go through these 300 or so cases to learn about the class. (Then again maybe I did not have to go through 300…but that’s moot now). Yet at the end of it, all that work could be summed up with a strained, fatigued laugh. A laugh at having made it through. A laugh at past pains that had been overcome. A laugh at those times I almost thought about giving up.

The sudden and violent liberation of my free time has a deafening silence to it. There was a gap that opened – much more like a vacuum caused by the end of that class. At any rate, with no more handwritten notes to worry about I think I can actually attempt to be human again.

Well, here’s to trying.

 

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