A little note of affection, to university and blogging
As it turns out, I was lying when I wrote that I would blog more during Term 2 than I did in Term 1. It seems it is too easy to have fun at university and, although I have been getting solid two-ones all term, I could definitely get a first class degree in procrastinating. I am taking solace in the fact that at least a small proportion of my procrastination is journalism-related – I spend many of the small hours reading the Economist, The New Yorker, Thought Catalog, Prospect and, really, anything I can find on the internet. As they say, only a great reader can become a good writer.
But something happens when I come home. I sit at my desk and look at my blue walls, typing on the blue laptop which I bought because it matched my room, and I remember starting this blog. I remember the hours I have spent filling this Blogger text box and how happy I always was when I wrote, even during some pretty hard times. I remember that it was this space that led me to do politics at A-level and then at university, to set my heart on journalism and eventually to blog for Prospect. Most recently, it led me to run in the election to be the next editor of Warwick Politics Society’s magazine (I am immensely pleased to say I got the gig!). It all comes back here, to Topical Creativity. And sitting here in my old room, reflecting on how much things have changed, I too am drawn back.
I realise I haven’t written about the Ukrainian crisis, or the continuing mayhem in Syria and Egypt, or the disappearance of flight MH370, and this saddens me a little. But I am not going to do that now, because you’ve got all the publications listed above (or, if you’re feeling lazy, BBC News) for that. Instead I am going to do something I haven’t for a while – I am going to post a poem. It’s about the new life I have found for myself at Warwick, and the wonderful people I have met there.
A jigsaw piece which completed some other puzzle,
This one made me feel misshapen, and I rattled around
in the empty box. An awkward reminder of imperfection.
You stumbled across me one day, and somehow recognised
the pattern I bear. I think I stirred something long-forgotten
and you knew what to do. You took me in and slotted me
into your life’s mosaic. I matched so well that I lost my uniqueness
and with it its curse. And I was glad when our edges lined up
and time was seamless. I had been the right shape all along.