Midterms are upon us, which means it’s the time of the semester when Columbia stops feeling like my favorite place in the world, and gradually morphs into that big blurry blob of sleepless nights that has, by now, become so familiar.
The treadmill effect begins to sink in: I swear I’m running hard but the work keeps coming and I’m not getting anywhere. If, in the last few days, you’ve found yourself pondering the meaning of life five times the usual amount, I think it’s only natural.
I also think it’s healthy to think about death every once in a while, to remind ourselves that we are the age we are (in other words, yolo). Today I almost got run over by a bus in my anxious need to economize my travelling time to Butler, so I started thinking about what would happen if I died. I wondered if I’d have any legacy---some essay or special letter I wrote that would float around after I was gone and make people sad and nostalgic.
