After completing my 69th reading of the term, I was met with an ear-piercing ringing in the brain that lasted a total of 1.00867 seconds. Head reeling, I thanked god the midterm break was right around the corner. I, dear reader, was at my limit — laying eyes on one more paragraph or poem was about to send me to the afterlife.
During the break, I stumbled upon a post on Twitter (sorry, I meant ‘X’) that reminded me to “prioritize self-care over all else🌸.” Though this may seem insignificant to some, it prompted me to reflect on my current relationship with reading: is studying serving me? Do I feel rejuvenated after devoting all my time to reading? No. I feel drained. Do I imagine the rest of my life entangled in the unforgiving grasp of course textbooks, such as POLI 105 (Critical Studies in Political Fanfiction)? No. I yearn for freedom. Sorry academia, but I don’t think this is working out. Let's end it. From now on, I’m never hovering my eyes over any form of text ever again. It’s time to focus on myself.
At first, the adjustment was a little difficult; reading is something that is intrinsically wired into how I navigate the world. Giving it up seemed impossible, but sure enough, I got better at it. I tried very hard not to look at any words, including condiment labels — I ended up spiking my bitter medicinal soup (midterm recovery fluids) with 43 kilograms of salt instead of sugar, got sodium poisoning and started convulsing in the dining hall.
For a second, I started believing that I shouldn’t have ended my relationship with reading, that I couldn’t live without it (literally). But no, I must prevail. I cannot succumb to the first stage of breakup grief (I will heighten my senses to the point where I can sniff out salt before I consume it).
After a week spent decentring my coursework, the realization of the amount of freedom I had hit me like a truck. I finally had time to walk my squirrel and shave my brows. It made me angry to think about all the times my readings restricted me from leisurely activities, such as going to the bathroom. Ladies (and gentlemen), let it be known that if something demands your attention 24/7, then it’s time to let it go.
During the second half of the week, I replayed everything over and over again in my head. What if my English prof had assigned Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone instead of Oliver Twist? Maybe (just maybe) I could’ve viewed the world with the same rose-tinted glasses I did when I was 12, and not be plagued with a deadly fear of the European lifestyle. This, I realize, must be why the relationship between reading and I would’ve never worked out for me; if reading meant exposing my mind to literary reflections of real-world tragedies, then that would only add more anguish and stress into my life. “Critical thinking” — why don’t we try “complementary thinking?” Everything in the world is as good as I say it is, safely and securely speaking from my little bubble of illiteracy.
Now approaching the end of ‘reading week’ (hah, ironic), my head feels lighter. With my cognitive abilities gone, I no longer have to scan the terms and conditions before I sign my life away to UBC Housing contracts. I don’t have to engage in trivial philosophical conversations when I can no longer form articulate thoughts! Washing away all remnants of that toxic relationship means no more obligation to complete assignments or midterms, nor any extra studying. Staying ignorant means I can finally allot my time to commenting “it’s not that deep” on every single video essay on YouTube (using voice-to-text, obviously)!
If you’ve been reading this far, this is your sign to free yourselves from the shackles of ‘required readings’ — they’re not really required, they just want you to think that. You have free will. You have the fundamental right to choose for yourself. Stop letting chemical labels and street signs influence the direction your life takes. Start putting yourself out there and taking risks! Disregard all the silly notions that course readings put into your head like existential dread — in fact, I don’t even know what ‘existential dread' means anymore because I just dumped my 279-page copy of Nausea by Sartre down the shredder.
