“Why Can’t I Just Paint?”

Said the student to the critical theory tutor… 

In short she replied with ‘because you can’t’.

I’m depressing myself flicking through my old transcripts and letters from my university. I kept my essay research in the same folder to absorb my tears as I reminisce of my life’s ultimate failure. Pages upon pages of photocopies from library books, newspaper articles and photo printouts, all incoherent junk.

The pattern, a random assortment beginning with work and inspiration of my own choosing and ending with some uncanny context and general shit that I didn’t even understand six years ago and still don’t now.

I have contemplated suing for long term emotional distress from the cost of a learning experience marred by neglect and ignorance to my individual needs. I know I wouldn’t get anywhere with that one, my silent voice lost in a mountain of complaints. Paying and living with debts and failure due to several unpleasant tutors and examinations that, the assessments of which, stain my memory with regrets of obeying the commands of a person whose only requirement to receive pay slips every month was to show up, does not constitute a viable case for prosecution. Perhaps if I were a man – but let’s not go there!

I often wonder if the reason for my self loathing and low esteem peaked during my time in university and following my failure commenced rolling down hill at accelerated speed towards anxiety and misery. I was once comfortable displaying my pains for the class to see, it was true and it was the best work I had ever created, plying layers of my sadness onto white paper and making an ugly part of my personality beautiful. To begin with I was me, and to finish, I was this manufactured husk of a previous human devoid of creativity and drained of life. Most of my friends passed the course and walked away with their diplomas (their tutors liked them) I walked away with dead eyes leaving my hope behind me in my locker like a used tissue.

I wanted to learn more, I was thirsty for further instruction but only encountered the most disappointing dead end in my experience of British educational institutions. I must be honest, I wish the department and all of its useless tutors to meet a very disappointing end in funding and employment because at present I feel that it is thoroughly deserved. Not that my words will have any effect, what I wish for the moment can do no harm.


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