Right about now, during the back half of the semester, I normally panic. My throat pulses and numbs, and my gut tingles–both reactions, I’m sure, result from the possibility of the varying degrees of academic perdition hereafter. It all starts as a mote. It springs from the center of my torso, crepitates, then subsides; then it whorls inside my chest, and buoys to my eyes.
I haven’t procured a conclusive explanation from any doctor, but I’m sure its more than merely a college student’s anxiety with grades–its the shadow of something horrible, and surprisingly irradiating; it’s indecision and uncertainty about my major, English. On a usual basis, my zest for literature–analyzing it and trying to best convey it–is roiled when people ask me what my career will be in the wake of “this terrible economic climate”. I usually return home, and re-evaluate my life, cloistered and weary.
This year…
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the / teeth / beneath 