Studying Engineering was difficult for me. The academic rigors were one thing (and I posit it as the most difficult undergraduate pursuit). But my mind was another. I never thought like an engineer, though I learned to incorporate its virtues into my experience. Learned the morality of function: a thing that does not work is of diminished value, it reverts to the sum of its parts. Learned to be critical of efficiency and logic: go on and pit your syllogisms against Gravity and Entropy. Developed a systematic approach to understanding things. And yet, I dreamed. I wrote poems. I read. I wrote two and a half novels in my time learning Statics and Calculus. And the hunger in my stomach was palpable, barking at the future. Demanding its share of time, its attention. Barking to keep one up at night.
And so, this kid (forget the chemicals and the altercations and the music and the slinking in the shadows). Walked down that windtunnel between limestone monuments, splashed feet in puddles limned with cigarettes, cut swathes through crowds of pigeons. I promised him that I would feed it. That when this Engineering thing fizzled (when I finally suffocated, see, and emerged) I would do whatever I had to do to learn my craft. To sharpen tools I thought I had. To find the truest way to transliterate the world I know into the world that is.
And so today I had this thought about the dim possibility that undergrad would extend another year, and I'd be another two semesters floundering around. Waiting for real concentration, waiting for real challenge. Writing, writing, but without the sobering sense of booktitle English accomplishments. And I just remembered myself walking in that wind, toward the library to rage over math problems I lacked the patience for, making promises. Making promises.
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