I spent a solid week working on a new way to present a design document in school, something that is never done in the real “working” world, but somehow is given to us as something that is necessary. I spent a week fleshing out the layout and then spent a horrible time, money, and effort trying to print out a document fitting the teacher’s standard, and was given an F for my trouble.
That’s right, the work that I produced, to the exact measurements of what the teacher asked for, was given an F for all my efforts. This marks my biggest frustration. I work so much to meet the desires of the teacher and I end up failing the course with no real measure of good knowledge. Why should I even try any longer?

The reasons given to me were that I should know better, and reality shows something different. My past documents weren’t formatted in the ways of my projects and they were passed without failure, but this one time that I try my best to present a different manner, even though my gut told me different, ends in disaster. This hit me with the weight of ten thousand swords, and amidst the trials that are surrounding me at the moment, I see my graduation in peril. I see the cloak of darkness of death waiting for me, waiting for the final grade to determine my professional life after college. This college is the greatest mistake of my life, it turned what I loved into something that I hate so much. I hate it so much that life after college, I hope, will have nothing to do with the things that I’ve learned here.

You may call this immature, you may call it giving up, but I’ve worked so hard to see myself pushed aside. What hurts more is the fact that they pass students that do half the work, do nothing good, showcase nothing along the lines of what is required, yet they are praised for their finals and given the awards and glory that comes with hard work. They have not worked hard in my view, but who am I? I feel like the prodigal’s brother again, mad at others for things that I have not done. Yet, I have done them, I have been there with the struggling, with the people that design badly, and what do I get for those efforts? A sweeping into the dust bin of history, due to malnurishment and horrible ideaologies shoved down my throat as the way things are.

With my teacher being sick, a sub comes in to deliver the bad news of my failure, and it’s not even coming from him. It’s coming from a third party source that doesn’t allow me to deliver my side of the story, nor do they care that I spent my weeks up at 5 am working on this stuff. They do not see the money that I try to earn at night, the days that pass me with such sorrow. They don’t care because they are paid to tell me that I am not a good artist and I can’t deliver on time. I do not meet the deadlines, I do not get scored for my troubles, and I wish that there was more to it than just this. I can’t work like this. I can’t work any more. I want to fail now, I want to give up, I want to move, but who cares what I want?

My believes shake my desires. I am stuck inside this box with no one to hear me but my conscience, which keeps me away until my eyes burn and my eyelids must close.