I lost the assignment sheet the night this paper was due, so I wrote it completely from the heart. The paper was originally supposed to be about how truth was demonstrated in the poem on the sheet. I may get a failing grade, but I think it may be the best thing I have ever written:
So here I sit at my computer at 5am, coming to grips with the realization that I have lost the paper that had the assigned poem written on it. I am uncertain when the poem was lost. I was letting some friends read my Philosophy of Poetry book the other night while we were having a beer together - maybe the sheet fell out of the book at that time. It would have been subsequently thrown away the next day when we cleaned the house. Or maybe it fell out of the book when I was walking home from class - the speculation goes on and on -
I suppose the loss of the paper is not nearly as much of a puzzler as this: how does one write a paper that fulfills almost none of the requirements and still get a passing grade? Better yet! How does a person in such a thorny situation convey that he really does care about the class, and yet allow such a moronic error to occur? What really irks me is that if I had decided to start even one day sooner, I would have realized the paper was gone and obtained another copy in a timely fashion. I suppose Aristotle would jump down my throat for having my passions out of alignment for being such a procrastinator, to which I would reply, “Hey, I do my best under pressure.” And then I am certain he would demonstrate that a person who needs pressure to perform is somehow falling short of what it is to be a balanced man. But I digress.
All students know what it feels like to sit in class and be involved in a discussion about a book that they were supposed to have read, but did not. I feel this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach on a near-daily basis. However, the feeling one receives from writing a paper about a poem they do not even have is akin to having a hole with a diameter of eight inches blown through one’s torso. It really is a shame that it takes such an academically detrimental event to compel me to write from the heart, but I may as well let the words flow. I am reminded of Dostoevsky’s Fyodor Petrovich (a character in Brother Karamazov). At the meeting with Elder Zosima, Fyodor behaves in a reprehensible manner. He is fully aware of his awful behavior, but is exhilarated by it, and even “dives headfirst” into it. I imagine I have quite a similar feeling right now.
The truth - what a topic to discuss when one has nothing to refer to. I imagine even in a headfirst dive that one can grasp the occasional branch or twig to break his fall. Since introspection seems to be the only viable discussion topic considering my self-inflicted lack of resources, I shall take that direction. The truth is that I love your class with every fiber of my being. I become intimidated by trying to define the patterns and rules of verse I see in a poem. I am usually too busy trying to absorb some sort of feeling from it. I get so enamored by the fact that I am actually feeling something that I completely miss rhyme, style, and other important pieces of the poem. Other people in class then point out the things I miss, and I proverbially kick myself in the behind for getting so caught up in feeling. I am not certain if each human epoch becomes more devoid of reasonable, ethical people, but I do know that the time I live in is very lacking in such areas. The poems we have read regarding truth have caused a painful yet necessary change in me. For example, the poem Eros Turannos caused me to feel the pain of a woman I love. She cannot see the manipulation she is suffering. She suffers from her inability to accept love, and an inability to control her own passions. I realized the instant I read the poem that it really “wasn’t me”, and that I could never be with my love unless she changed on her own free will. That may not happen for a long time, and I grieve. The poem Ozymandias demonstrated to me that I have been doing nearly everything for the wrong reasons. Every action I have taken up until about three weeks ago has been for some sort of approval or later glorification. The poem A Man Said to the Universe has shown me that my personal struggles are not the struggles of others, that I must find the strength to stop making excuses for my shortcomings, and that I must stop looking for handouts in life.
Very few of the people who surround me allow themselves to feel anything. They have become hardened and calloused by the “world of things.” I suppose I have been drawn into it to some degree, but I am aware of it. What really pains me is that the only time I ever feel anything is for an hour and fifteen minutes, twice a week. I noticed it the day you so convincingly spoke of men who just “Screw women and run away from responsibility.” I have never been in such a situation, but it was portrayed in such a convincing and compelling manner that I almost began to cry. I almost began to cry for a woman who existed in a fictional poem, yet I cannot remember the last time I cried at a funeral! What is wrong with me?
Though my lack of understanding of the rules of verse is apparent, I hope I have demonstrated that I am learning truth. I suppose it would be difficult for a painter to paint when he is starving to death. Similarly, it has been difficult for me to focus on much of anything lately now that I realize my soul has been starving to death. Nearly every action I have taken in the past month has been to feed either my own soul or someone else’s. The only problem is that very few of these actions seem to align with my current academic curriculum.
It is never right to brag or boast of one’s virtue, but I must state that I have been using the entirety of truth I have learned thus far in philosophy on a daily basis. Though my training is incomplete, I have come across people who need my help right now. How can I tell someone who is on the brink of death or insanity that I cannot discuss morality or ethics with her because I am too busy typing a paper about a French philosopher who wrote 250 pages of speculation? How can I study a foreign language [that I will probably never put to use] when another friend is suffering from irresolvable life problems? Am I not worthy to provide him with some assistance? Nearly every evening there is some new problem that I must deal with. I guess I love the well being of my friends more than my own success. Am I jeopardizing my own well being my allowing myself to academically falter? I know that I write well and speak somewhat well, and that I do so in such a way that assists others in finding truth, but can I survive in this world and help others if I do not have a piece of paper on my wall that says I can?
I suppose another important truth can be derived from this poem that I did not read. Perhaps I am being compelled to go into the world and help people because I am ready to do so. If my knowledge has matured to a point at which people recognize it and cry out for help, perhaps I need to help them now, and finish my studies later. I have never failed at anything in life until now, and this sobering feeling of difficult things to come leaves me wondering if helping them was worth it. However, I know the feeling one receives when he shuns someone who sends out a last cry for life, and it would be more unacceptable to take that road than other.
So I stand here, ready to accept my fate. It would have been a bastardization to attempt to find the poem this morning and whip something up quickly. I feel more comfortable and honest turning in a paper that thoroughly strays from the requirements than a paper that half-heartedly fulfills the requirements. I realize that some sort of discussion will be in order after this: perhaps a chance at redemption, or a severe reprimand. However, my only hope and request is that you do not take this as a sign of disrespect. I am the one who fell short in this case, but I still want to turn something in that demonstrates that I am learning. I do not want you to feel as if though you have failed me in any way, because that is not the case. I am certain that I derived more truth from my failure of a semester than I did from all the others combined.