My Liver a.k.a. My Semester

Prometheus is a cool dude. He saw a need: man had no way to remain warm. He rectified the need: he stole fire from the rest of the gods and gave it to the humans.
Zeus and the other gods were angry. Prometheus had just given a godlike-power to humans--who certainly didn't deserve it in the first place. So, Zeus retaliated by taking Prometheus, chaining him to a huge rock, and ordering an eagle to come eat Prometheus' liver--a pretty sick way to die. Problem was Prometheus didn't die. Since he was a god, his liver regrew every night, and the eagle would then start fresh each day. The eagle ate all of Prometheus' liver each and every day for a long time.

I felt like Prometheus this semester. Not the god part and not the bearing of special knowledge part, but the liver part.

This has been the single worst semester of my life. I took far too many credits, worked far too many hours, did far too many extra things, and did not see my family and friends anywhere near what I should have. When I arrived home after my last day, I have never been so exhausted. My brain was incapable of accepting the fact that I was done, incapable of believing that finally everything had been turned in, incapable of admitting to myself that I had no more responsibilities for this semester--ever. I think I am just now beginning to believe it.

I believe in education. You know that. I have ideals about what education is, how it should take place, what it should encompass, what it should accomplish, and what it should bring about. I felt as if many of my ideals about education this semester, while not dashed or destroyed, were severely dented.

I took three lit. classes this semester, which should immediately tell you how much reading I was doing. I'm also one of those annoying people who reads every single assignment. I also had a lit. class every day, so there was never any day in-between the pain. These were my main problems this semester. And because of those three lit. classes, I spent my days and nights alternating between living and dying.

It was in class when I died. People would say things--things you would not believe had you not been there. I would look helplessly around, at my classmates and at the teacher, and realize that no one saw any problem with what had just been said. People would share their views on what made this literature acceptable or not, and they would misstate, mistake, and misquote the author, the text, and anything else they could find to willfully misunderstand. I would want to raise my hand and say, "Stop. Everything you're saying is something I am fundamentally opposed to and here's why." But you can't do that to every person that shares a view--even if it's true. The eagle was merciless. Every single class period--do you know what that feels like?--every single class period I wanted to disagree (even for my contrary self, that's a lot) with someone, and every single class period, I instead learned to be silent.

It was when I read, that my liver regrew. It was when I was with those few people who thought the way I did about literature that I felt alive. It was when I wrote about literature that I breathed. It was when I sat down, opened the book, read, evaluated, and thought that I convinced myself to go the next day. It was when I found something I loved that I thought no one could possibly object to the beauty being conveyed.

But always, always, always the next day came and the slow, painful death would begin all over again.

It ended. It never felt like it would, but it did. In some legends, Hercules comes, shoots the eagle, and sets Prometheus free--I just took finals.

I don't every want to relive anything like what I went through again. Ever.
The worst part was, even when I convinced myself there was an end, that I was almost done, and that I would never think about this again, some horrible part of me would wonder if this was what life was going to be like. If these people were the people I was expected to talk about literature with for the rest of my life, and if I was always going to feel constantly held back.

If you know, don't tell me. I'm begging you--don't tell me.