Spending the past fortnight mixing with the best early-modernists and Marvellians in the world, as exciting and exhilirating as it has been, has shown an alarming sense of insecurity.
Alongside your scholarly idols, it is easy to see yourself as lacking. I am a confidence player, and my mood plays a strong part in my efficiency and productiveness. I have sought crumbs of support, and been thrown crusts, only for other birds to steal in as I approach.
There are different types of insecurity. Sometimes I want to hide and slip away. Sometimes I look to talk more. I seek to gain respect, to find a moment of brilliance to match everyone else. It never comes.
There are people out there who benefit unknowingly at my expense or effort. I suddenly become stirred if I hear these people mentioned, and yearn for some credit and respect back.
I am average and unremarkable, physically and mentally, and can do nothing to turn heads, academically or personably.
Yet, to divulge these private acts of sacrifice that I have made, which may bring warmth or sympathy my way, is only to destroy what made the acts special, and also to destroy my dignity in the revelations. The only dignity I can build is in silence.
There’s no winning; just a passage of time until I try to bring 2005 round again.