And so starts year two! Well, it started quite a while ago really, but I haven't felt compelled to write about it earlier; in summary, it has involved lots of work, ridiculous house-arguments and a near-permanent state of exhaustion. I have entered a vicious cycle wherein I am too tired to concentrate, stay up later in order to get work done, get less sleep, am more tired as a result, am too tired to concentrate, etc. It is not good. This cycle will hopefully be unwound next week, when my bastard lab report and anatomy exam are out of the way (thanks BMS dept for setting the first two pieces of work that actually count towards my degree for the same day!) so I will be able to sleep all weekend without guilt. Except that I'll have to catch up with all the reading I haven't been able to do due to aforementioned bastard lab report and exam. Jesus Christ, it's never-bloody-ending.

I had a meeting with my personal tutor yesterday, which went pretty well. Apparently, if I can keep my exam marks up to the same standard as last year, I should make a 2:1 no problem, possibly a first. Which is pretty damn good, except of course that it is all a lot harder this year. I'll muddle along though, as I always do...

...Which leads me into today's existential rant. This is something I don't think I've ever really discussed with anyone, because I fear it would make me sound like a complete arse. I think I sound like an arse when I think it to myself. But I figure the internet has plenty bigger arses than mine floating about it, so I'm going to go for it.

I am very happy to hear that I am currently doing very well as far as grades are concerned. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that it doesn't really matter. I've always had that feeling, but more so recently. I am terribly, boringly academic, and I just wish I was good at something more interesting than school. I guess this is what I get for being into art and writing and music- it's so incredibly frustrating that I will never be able to make beautiful things for a living like all the people I really admire. Who cares if I can remember a bucket-load of genes and the proteins they code for, or the flexors and extensors of the forearm, or the mechanisms of long-term potentiation? It doesn't MEAN anything. It would if I were to become a doctor, or some other medical professional that actually made a direct difference to people's lives, but that's a no-go route. I just feel like the poster-child for mediocrity. Which is stupid, because I know really that I'm lucky to be this good at the book-learning, and there's probably lots of people out there who wish they were as good at it as me. But from a selfish point of view, I want more than this. This isn't enough as far as I am concerned, personally. I suppose what makes it worse is that I can play music a bit, and draw a bit, but not to a standard that makes me stand out- and yet those are the things I most enjoy doing, when it comes down to it. If I'm reading for a lecture, I'll get bored after ten minutes of even the most stimulating of topics; if I'm drawing or painting, I can do so for several hours without looking up once. I don't know. There's just days when I want to give up this whole university lark and just paint pictures in a cabin in the woods. As long as it has internet, obviously.

On a more positive note with regards to this, I will soon start volunteering for a local charity, Art in the Park. Basically, volunteers go to parks around Sheffield, set up creative workshops and encourage people- kids mainly, but anyone can join in- to get down and help make art. I did some volunteering at my old Middle School a couple of years ago and have to say, despite my anti-babies stance, that helping slightly older children draw and paint and make stuff is super-fun. I may not be creating anything to inspire future generations, but at least I'll hopefully make some kids smile for a bit. That's probably the best I can hope for at the moment.