April 26, 2015, 10:51 p.m.
I’m a few hours into writing a seven-page final paper. It’s due in an hour or so, but I won’t be able to finish it on time. I’ll have to take a 5 or 10% grade deduction for handing it in late.
It’s no big.
For the first time in so long, I felt passionate about writing a paper. I was all, “Am I arguing about Bram Stoker’s hidden homosexuality itself, or the effect it had on Jonathan Harker’s feelings of self-worth concerning his attraction to Dracula?” It was intense. I was seized with that feeling I get before I spend hours working on a song or an art project. Sure, it took me until 11 o’clock on the night of, but at this point in the semester, grades don’t matter as much. I’ve put in the mental effort to attend class most days, therefore I am a champion and I can get a C if that’s what’s going to happen.
Caring about life matters to me. Grades won’t mean squat if I don’t live to appreciate the work I’ve put into them. Without classes and without a serious-adult job, I’m going to have a lot of free time this summer to give up on trying. To give up on creating. To give up on caring.
So if this excitement about the homosexual themes in Bram Stoker’s Dracula is anything to me, it is hope.
It doesn’t matter when the paper is due, not really.
What matters is that I can still care.
And I’ll hold on to that, pass or fail.