woe is me

Once again the summer draws to a close. What are my thoughts on this austere occasion? I don't think I've worked long or hard enough on my project - the project that I was supposed to have been occupied with all these months. I wonder how my partner is taking it. I wouldn't be surprised if he felt betrayed, since my lack of interest in this project has amounted to nothing short of a betrayal. I wouldn't blame him if he cornered me at school with a sharp object. I can't get over how unmotivated I've felt these past few months. There's a very real chance that I might not make it through grad school applications this fall, since I haven't "connected" enough with professors these past three years to touch them for recommendation letters in good conscience. In addition, I palpably lack the motivation that I had four years ago during undergraduate applications, which wasn't even that impressive. I remember being encouraged in freshman year to "network" and "make connections", but I never suspected that it would be these words that would come back to haunt me, of all the horrific things I've heard in my lifetime. There are few things as pathetic as being able to trace your downfall to a single mistake.

To make things worse, I'm beginning to doubt my desire to continue in CS after I graduate. Scratch that. I've been sensible from the start that I lacked the passion for CS that everyone else seemed to have, but I put that down to my inability to be passionate about anything. That, and I've never been able to shake off the mindset that academic disciplines are arranged in a sort of hierarchy that people are slotted into according to their intelligence. I blame Indian schooling for this one. Now I'm wondering whether it wouldn't be worthwhile to study something like physics, or who knows what else. Even I do make my peace with a decision, there's no guarantee that I shall be able to gather enough recommendation letters in time. Woe, as they say, is me - or I. (Italicized to bring to the reader's attention the source for the title.)

I haven't read too many books this summer, in keeping with my general hebetude. Creation, Of Human Bondage, and Three Men in a Boat seem so distant now. Latterly I've been making slow progress on David Hume's six-volume history of England. Somehow it's a lot easier to follow than Gibbon's Decline and Fall or Livy's History of Rome, even though all of them were written (and in the case of my edition of Livy's, translated) within a hundred years of each other. I think I might make renewed attempts on those great works after I've read enough about England. In the meantime, I weep over a life wasted.