It is with much delight that I announce my return from a ghostly adventure that was a seven-hour reading period. Did I know? Or was I prepared for it? Who am I to say no? Or yes for that matter?
Alright, let's cut the gibberish and get straight to the point. A recent summation of the number of hours I've been putting into reading has had me flabbergasted. Now, I'm not talking about some kiddish Harry Potter reading, but dry and unbelievably acrid textbook reading. Reading that will put you asleep faster than the world's strongest sleeping pills. That was three hundred strenuous pages of electromagnetism, organic chemistry, materials science and statistics in just one week. In the end of it all, what was left behind was a spinning head that hurt and a confused little teenager.
Rote, redundance and repetition. Isn't that the way I've been learning every single thing ever since I've ever known myself? What has happened to the great inspiring days when people would actually understand what and why they were doing what they were doing? I've rarely complained of information overload; I've never even felt that effect to be honest. We have such wonderful textbooks with such wonderful illustrations, diagrams and pictorials, such wonderful professors, such wonderful classrooms and lecture halls, such wonderful libraries where one can go high up to the tenth floor and study in a room where pins could be heard falling. Such is the beauty of my everyday learning. Yet I feel a void. A void I just can't put my finger on. For the last twelve years or so, I've learnt things, or summaries rather, that were invented or created by other men and women in the past. I find my very own personal contribution missing. In short, I'm not studying what I've learned. I'm not studying what I've discovered.
Alas. Rote, redundance and repetition it is. Rote, redundance and repetition it will be.