It's almost three in the afternoon and the fact that the day already has more passed hours than I have written words on my due-tomorrow essay hits me like a sudden rain shower. Twenty-five hundred words is not even that much, but so far I have only fourteen. That's one sentence, and I don't even like it. I'm not too fond of the pressure that I caused myself by not having started yesterday.
I was never much of an academic, I think. No, I'm pretty sure I wasn't. When I look back on my days in school I remember subjects that I had an original interest in, such as paedagogy, philosophy or literature, but that doesn't mean that I was good at them. I blame the teachers and the curricula, but who am I kidding. The most significant truth is that I was just not a good student.
Eventhough there were subjects that I liked, there were other subjects that I was good at. That would be sports, arts or history. And history was a mistake. I'm honestly not too keen on history, but my old teacher was a decent story-teller. That's all there is. I really have to consider myself lucky they let me graduate. I think every family has its brain. And in our family it's clearly not me.
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