Sat in the Middle of the Bridge

by arosedavidson

Sometimes, I wish I could know what to do. I wish I could be the one that crosses the bridge without looking back, the one that doesn’t care about a thing and just moves on.

So, obviously, I wish I weren’t the one that takes a sit right in the middle of the bridge, without knowing which way to choose.

Sometimes, frustration overwhelms me and I find myself trying to melt into the floor – I wish that could be different.

Life at college sucks, sometimes – specially when you feel you’re inside a phantom college, where nothing happens and no one knows anything at all. I truly want to be different, I do, but it’s just too much for me to handle with. I don’t have a nice relationship with pressure and rudeness and sometimes I just think I don’t have the guts to keep doing it. Yes, that’s definitely the word: guts.

With these sentences, I’m not trying to say that I can’t handle anything at all, that I must be kept in a bell jar. All I’m trying to say is that I can’t handle everything. After all, I’m just a human being; I have to break, at some point.

Maybe theoretical courses are quite less personal, as students stay in their chairs and listen to the teacher. Artistic courses are infinitely more personal, though. We are relatively close to our teachers, they look at our stuff and, screaming, they say it sucks. Of course I don’t feel offended by their words: I just get uncomfortable with the screams.

Even though, they keep giving us great grades. Grades that I know I don’t deserve.

The stereotype keeps telling us that fashion designers don’t actually know how to draw and, for sure, I disagree. If I actually get to be a fashion designer, I won’t want to be like that. I want to be a great drawer, just that.

I think I’ve improved since I started college, but I don’t think it was enough. I try, I never skip a class and I’m always working. But it just doesn’t seem to work. Sometimes, I think I should attend to another type of course, quit drawing professionally once and for all, and just grab my charcoal when I’m in the mood.

I know that teachers scream at us so that we get to realize that we’re going in the wrong direction, that we can do better, if we want to. I absolutely grasp that they’re trying to cause us anger, in order to make us want to prove the world that we can do it better.

I grasp that, but it just doesn’t work with me. The effect of those screams in my unusual being comes with a swallowed emotion that can’t emerge until I finally get home. Oh, and I forgot about something else: the screams also make me think that I should quit design [even though I’m starting to think as an actual designer, and, moreover, I can’t imagine my existence without it…]