After Life

9

The next few days passed impossibly slow. I couldn’t quite decide if that was because I was still feeling depressed over Harrys rejection, or if it was yet another twist of Einstein’s theory. The fact that I was now left without a single possible idea for my assignment left me feeling anxious and uncertain, and I spent most of my time before, between, and after classes trying to think of a new option.

Unfortunately, the harder I thought, the less progress I made. It was a twisted form of writers block, a concept I learned in one of my courses early in my program. A professor had explained that writers block was a problem that didn’t just afflict writers. Any form of creativity was open for this mental constipation of sorts, whether it be literary, photography, or painting. It always seemed that just when you needed inspiration, a little spark of genius, was when everything around you seemed dull and gray. Nothing challenged you and nothing evoked a response from you. And the harder you tried, the more dejected you became.

That was the perfect explanation for how I had been since my run in with a certain green-eyed boy on Tuesday. Although I had spent the last few days pushing him from my mind any time he crept in, seemingly still intent on invading my thoughts despite the fact that there was no point in thinking of him at all, I had yet to replace him with anything else.

Classes seemed to drag on, feeling more endless than usual. I usually enjoyed my classes, loving the fact that I was learning the technical side of what I loved. But as each day passed, I seemed only to be reminded how close graduation was. And in turn, that was just a reminder of how soon final assignments were due.

Thursday was where I seemed to hit the proverbial wall, of sorts. Making my way to my final assignment class, I found myself nervous at the fact that an entire week had officially passed, and I was no closer to finding a subject matter than I had been before I even knew of the topic.

The lecture reviewed the techniques and aspects to a winning exhibit, all of which were strides we were to take with our own assignments.  Small little changes or variations that progressed through the images displayed, flowing through your exhibition to culminate in the desired feeling from your audience. This was what we were to achieve, if we were to do well at the end of this course.

Near the end of class, the professor asked how many of the students had decided on a subject for the topic. I felt some relief when only about one quarter of the students raised their hands. To know I was not the only one struggling with what would be suitable for such a topic nursed my wounded ego and creativity. It was short lived, however, when the professor urged those of us who had yet to make our choice to do so quickly, as our initial images were due in only five weeks time. This then caused me to shift my focus from those in the room who didn’t have a subject, to those who did.

What were their subjects? How had they chosen them? Were they people, or places, or things? How did they feel that choice fit the topic given, and how did they plan on projecting that in a photograph?

My momentary relief was shattered as my mind was yet again filled with frantic questions and uncertainty as I packed up my bag as class ended.

Friday, after my afternoon class, I decided to go back to the library. Where I had been going there the weekend prior in search of Harry, this time, I went back for a new insight. I felt I needed to take the space in again, with fresh eyes, and start with a clean slate. Now that he was no longer an option, maybe I would be able to give some of the other possibilities there a more honest chance.