I believe it to be right for me to apologize for the lateness attached to this post — life has carried on at an erratic pace, spreading my attention thin within its wake. You see, my focus never is entirely consistent, for my thoughts are too often swayed by other matters of life, love, pain and happiness. All of these emotions flow in and out of me, and it is in fact tiring. I frequently look forward to the weekends as a break from the chaos, anticipating the time of leisure, only for it to slip by in the blink of an eye. Come Monday morning, my eyes are as baggy as ever, and I have fulfilled a false sense of restoration, and acquired a false sense of preparedness for the next week to come. However, these past weeks have changed that. In a way, all this time had made me undergo a transformation. My eyes are still baggy, yet I can’t help but feel as if they are now open – aware and conscious of particular details in my life – most importantly that of what I own, and what I don’t. In this transformation I have discovered a loss; that of time. It has been fourteen days in this program; fourteen days in which I have been in search of lost time.

Week 1

This adventure had started at the turn of this scholarly quarter. I immediately fell in love with this program, which had showcased all its glory from the start. My first day was the Wednesday of that primary week. The day had opened up with what I deemed to be a very philosophical reading of Marcel Proust’s intro to “Swann’s Way”. We had discussed the themes presented in the first handful of pages, one of which stuck to me most – the idea, this theme, that distinguished my perspective over life, between the reality of the physical world, and the reality of a very internal world. “How profound,” I had thought, “how real”.

This idea of separation between two realities was so legitimate in my eyes, so sound in my mind, that it had placed a new-found filter on the way I perceived the world. It was a beautiful thought, however it was equally disheartening. I went home that evening and was greeted by my family. I looked into the eyes of each of the members of my household; my mother, father, brother, grandmother and lover all looked back at me with a similar fondness. To them, my greeting was a normal, almost habitual occurrence, yet these moments dug deep into my own conscious. Those loved ones, who’s eyes I looked into, might have seen in my return, in a way,  a sort of background noise – irrelevant to the thoughts and worries already occupying their mind. But I saw these moments as an embodiment of our love. I became sad. I had realized that their love for me was not so simple – It was a sense of care produced by a collection of memories, experiences, thoughts and ideas entirely distinct from my own, and from one another. I had longed for it to be simpler than that, questioning to myself, “why can it not just be love?”.

By the end of that week I had developed a sort of existential crisis. The end of the first week concluded with a viewing of “Boyhood”, a film following the lives of a family over the course of many years. The main character was very much within my generation, and had many experiences which I could relate to. To say the least, I was emotionally invested in the film, and overwhelmed by the process of watching our protagonist’s adolescent life flash by in a matter of hours. Afterwards, I had reflected on my own life, which also seemed to pass by in what felt like a similar amount of time, and I became frightened at what the reality of my situation was; scared by the amount of time I had actually lived out, up to this present point. It was not only until I remembered the end of the film that my hope and happiness was restored. The ending scenes portrayed our the protagonist, who’s childhood ended, now at college, awaiting the potential of his future. I felt calmed, and my sense of control over my life was restored. Perhaps it was because the end of this boy’s story was so closely related to the start of mine — at the age of eighteen and at the cusp of adulthood.

Week 2

Talk about a turnaround… The first week of this program had left me feeling uncertain for my future. But I believe I have discovered my own personal ailment, thanks to this second week of school. Monday’s lecture was focused around the studies of French history; its revolutions, periods of enlightenment, the rise of the thinker and the Impressionist movement [an artistic style that I am quite fond of]. This uncertainty of the future, which tortured me at points, was replaced by a hope inspired by its unknown potential (thanks to the studies of a much more sturdy past; one which produced historical conflicts, beautiful art movements, and intriguing social change). I found comfort in hearing the thoughts of past philosophers, who also seemed to question. Whether it was about our place in the world, or the purpose of individualism, I knew that I was not alone in my existential crisis.

Week two had also called for the submission of our own memory project proposal. I had loved the study of French history so much that I had decided to continue European studies, this time, under the scope of Nazi-Germany. I saw this project as my own opportunity to make history, through my own interpretation of it. The program had not only assigned me to this work – it had ultimately provided me with the motivation to complete it. I look forward to updating others on my findings.