It’s another of those nights of lying in bed staring into the ceiling, and trying to catch hold of the tail of one thought before it bounces off the sides of my head; like a new year’s rocket that’s shot into a house, and smash from wall to wall.
There’s a song that goes “future’s so bright I gotta wear shades” by Timbuk 3. Yeah, the future seem so bright, but like Ben told me once – a bright future could be a future full of glowing radioactive fallout.
The whole song seems so much like an ironic, sarcastic statement about my life. How do I know that the future won’t be a radioactive wasteland rather than the fulfilling, rich one I hope for?
This whole chain of thought was set in motion by a lady that earlier this evening said that I belong to the “entitled generation”. That basically means that I expect everything to be handed to me.
The truth is, I don’t even know if I have a future as an English literature student. It’s not the most useful trade to study, particularly not if you want to make a living in that future. My whole future hinges, sort of, on getting into Oxbridge. Isn’t that hoping for too much?
And the weird thing is that I’m not even hoping; I keep hope of getting in firmly in check because it’s not going to be only about my effort or my grades. So many thousand of the world’s brightest apply to Oxbridge each year that you need a fair bit of luck to get in.
I hate that the probability can only be described in the metaphysical sense, as luck, but there you have it. I’m much more likely not to get in, than I am to be accepted. I think the odds against getting in are something like 200 to 1.
Tens of thousands apply for less than 1000 spots each year. How can I even hope to beat those odds? In the real world and not in the fairy land I construct in my head when I want to think positively?
The lady thought I was being unrealistic, and that I should aim for something more attainable, and maybe she is right. Maybe I do sometimes charge ahead and just assume things are going to happen, and that those things will go my way.
I love books, and I love writing. There’s nothing better than losing yourself in that actual existing form of telepathy that reading is. You enter the mind of another person. You lose yourself in books, and each book changes something, even if it’s little.
But maybe sometimes doing what you love isn’t the smart thing to do, particularly if you can’t see how it is going to really work unless you reach the very pinnacle of that field by going to a place like Cambridge.
So, I’m lying here, once again, and doubt myself and my assumptions. One more aspect of belonging to the entitled generation, I suppose. I worry about things I can’t really do anything about.