Life is very busy. Life is very long. I will, in time finish what I’ve started; I’m still young, and even when the semester threatens to pull me along whether or not I’ve yet stood to meet its challenge, I am here.
Amidst some inner confusion about whether or not I should actually pursue a PhD, and what I would do if I did not pursue a PhD, I’ve turned (as always) to Woolf:
There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.
I give up, in moments like these, even trying to express myself. Rather than feel defeated, I am just somehow relieved that Woolf always has the right words: the one thing that is always constant.