I haven’t died, yet. My absence has been partially deliberate, partially due to ensuing deadlines, and partially due to the fatigue and mindlessness that stress exacerbated insomnia brings on.
Two and a half more weeks, then my eleven year undergraduate Odyssey will be ended. Like Odysseus, had I been more prudent I might have finished the journey more quickly. Had I been more diligent I might be a doctor now.
I have lately been regretting my withdrawal from Drew. Third tier, sub-sub-ivy league, would have been marginally more impressive than graduation from a state school, even if no more notable to anyone by me. But like Odysseus’s notoriety, my experience came from the time spent. I write fairly well, better than I did years ago. Perhaps graduate school would have been wasted on me. I met the woman I love by taking the circuitous path. I got my first writing awards and substantial publishings in following it. Like wishing I lived at any other time, a time before things were quite so polluted, when there wasn’t a mass of garbage floating about in the sea, the fantasy ultimate comes to a point when it unravels, because any time before the time I first got sick would predate the treatment that saved me. In the same way, wishing I’d have graduated sooner or from a different school would mean I’d have had to give up too much. It wouldn’t have been worth it.
Odysseus retook his home in the end, and because he spent his decade drifting about, rather than at home, he is remembered. I got what I have for how I spent my time, satisfied or not, it is the only epoch that suits.