I remember once being told “we don’t exist, we just fuck around”. Words, said to me over the din of Youtube remixes and Nikita-brand vodka served in mugs, have stuck in my mind for a few weeks now. The flame-haired mess of curls who spouted this wisdom sat opposite me in my kitchen. We’d agreed to stay inside the confines of the “student tower” that is Trinity Hall for the evening. It was going to be tea and mellow “choons” followed by bed at 11.
The next day, I was planning on being an adult for a change. First 2am, 3am, the 4am and 5am came and went and the Nikita bottle grew lighter by the hour. I did not awake as an adult should that next morning. Instead, I awoke at 10.30am, fashionably late for my 8:15am exam. Now honestly, what’s 15 per cent in the grand scheme of things? Sorry Mum.
I spent the day in friends’ kitchens, watching clouds and sunlight drift by, boiling brown pasta just to have something to do. The current of jagged sounds I’d heard the night before had come to rest in the great chasm between my ears and beneath my skull.
I’m not the same person who packed their life into plastic bags and set out to be that bit better. I’m not sure how I should feel about this
As students, what do we do? We arrive on Sunday evenings with our laundry bags and notions of assertive productivity. Monday lectures go smoothly, with your four-hour gap spent in Mooch admiring the architecture of the library you’re avoiding. Monday nights can be responsible too, maybe it’s dinner and early bed, or maybe it’s Reddit till your Mac dies. Tuesday, well you have to go out on a Tuesday, no? Hence Wednesday doesn’t start till 3pm, and honestly you may as well conserve your energy and wait to try again on Thursday, except you didn’t because someone just had to suggest the pub. Then after this long week you treat yourself to Fridays off.
I exaggerate, but the week just passed was indeed long. And, yes, I took the liberty of a Friday spent sat atop a bench enjoying the rare sunshine and a moment doing nothing much. The ducks of Trinity Hall waddled nearby, their standard routine of “let’s all attack this one other duck” was entertainment money couldn’t buy and if you saw me there you wouldn’t have known I was a student with worries of college work and employability. You wouldn’t know that I had essays to write and books to read, you wouldn’t know I was someone who had interests, who once had hobbies, passions, even talents. The point being I’ve become nothing more than the man upon the bench watching ducks paddle by. I started college thinking I’d learn such important, affirming things, secrets and hints about life and what I was meant to do with it. I thought I’d educate myself and that I’d better myself. It was then it struck me that I couldn’t possibly better someone who I no longer was.
I’m not the same person who packed their life into plastic bags and set out to be that bit better. I’m not sure how I should feel about this. I don’t draw anymore, I can’t sing unless “Mr Brightside” is playing and I haven’t been on stage in years. At the same time, I think of all the things my former self had never done. He had never sat with friends till dawn and watched in pity as nursing students rose for placement, he had never stole potted plants from Rathmines terraces (we felt guilty and put them back), and he definitely never tried to bleach his hair with toilet cleaner (…a kind soul stopped me). The new me, if I’m quite honest, is a passing phase. I doubt I’ll be this apathetic in a decade but for now I relish the thrill of seeing where days lead, even if that means just watching ducks fight.
Humans learn through our observations and the world around us has so much to teach us, even if it’s taught by listening to those who drink €4 wine
If I’d come to college and attended every lecture like the diligent schoolboy who’d worked so hard to get here then I’d most certainly have seen my year take a different turn. I’d not be the person I am right now. While that might perhaps be a good thing if I was looking for that golden first, I tell myself that I didn’t come to college to be myself. It’s a cliché, but I came to find out who me was. So far I know he’s a disorganised mess with little direction and a shocking lack of inhibition, but if all I do is “fuck around”, as my wise young friend said, then you know what, that’s what I’ll do, and I’ll do it till it’s not “me” anymore.
These are the formative years. After all, if I’d come here in September and shed my skin to reveal my carbon copy hiding beneath like some angular Russian doll then what would the point have been? Who says your turbulent, scandalous years spent missing deadlines and eating toast should be anything but experiential? This is not the time when you’ll save the world or write your novel. Humans learn through our observations and the world around us has so much to teach us, even if it’s taught by listening to those who drink €4 wine. The people I’m meeting, stories I’m hearing and nights I’m forgetting are piece by piece putting together a rather puzzling, mismatched mosaic of who I might one day be.
It’s true, I’m not existing, not yet, and I know I’m neither complete nor ready. Till then I guess I’ll just fuck around, I’ll watch the ducks and think of all the ways to waste more precious time. Then if I’m lucky at the end of it all I’ll be an adult with all the hobbies, talents and passions they need to face their beckoning future. I’ll let you know when I’m done.
