Small changes, and big changes.

Dear Friends,

I don't like writing confessional pieces, but this is an especially interesting time in my life and I think that writing down a few thoughts could be both interesting and good.

I finished the taught section of my degree last Thursday. Leading up to that moment and in the days since, I have felt like I am in an unstable equilibrium; that is, like a ball balanced on an upturned  bowl, one push and I will move to an entirely new position. I have become very conscious of the changes taking place. I am still unsure about how I feel about them.

I have rarely had to think about money in these last three years. My tastes are modest, and I have mostly been able to live comfortably and comfortably within my means. But now, in order to carry on living in my home and to feed and clothe myself I must join the million young people already looking for work, in the hopes that somebody will decide my time is worth purchasing. This worries me a little. I want to live and work in York, at least for a little while, because I think that it is wrong that employers think that people should move anywhere in the country for work. Work is seen as something worthier than is, at least than it should be. Our communities and friendships have to mean something, they have to be important considerations when we are deciding what to do with our lives. The strength of my yearning to stay with the people who bring goodness to my life feels like an impediment to fruitful employment.

As an aside, I have been more self-conscious than usual while writing this, because I moments earlier finished reading Orwell's 'Politics and the English Language' in preparation for some editing I need to do for the York Student Think Tank, and now I feel the weight of his judgement on every word as I heave it into place.

I have taken to reading and writing more, perhaps because I have been worrying and have more free time. My readings are troubling me emotionally and provoking my thoughts. The inevitable themes of alienation and despair are probably not doing me much good. Perhaps Aristotle's catharsis is doing me good, or perhaps like The Savage literature is slowly driving me insane. Or perhaps I misread Huxley on that point.

The great uncertain lies in front of me. There are many opportunities, but also I have reason to be afraid. I have not yet found the means for my continued preservation, and though society and my more immediate communities are unwilling to tolerate my termination, it is my wish to go my own way. I wonder if the securing of material needs is the answer to the first part of the question 'How am I to live?'.