Final year
Last semester, I occasionally thought about the students smoking in a huddle outside the library in mid October, puffing away late into the night, griping about a dissertation suffocating them into a state of self-pity. In that moment I felt detached, swept briefly away into a world I didn't understand yet seemingly expected myself to empathise with. The truth is that I did empathise, but only in the ludicrous, vague feeling of emptiness that accompanies anyone leaving the library late at night - the feeling that you have morphed into barely a husk of limp muscle, stretched excessively over a brain drained by the lateness of the hour. This is a final year. A final year is when the bedroom, once full of old family photos in a desperate attempt to project personality and emotion onto the walls, now exists barely for sleeping. Now campus is life’s centre, superseding all else. Writing this, I am once again ensconced within the horrendous grey of the main library before term has even b...