NOTE: Unfinished essay coming right up. Been sitting on it for a while, thought I'd put it up for comments to get some more ideas about continuing it. Read if interested, comment if you read. Tried best to make it clear, but perhaps it's become dull (if the concept weren't dull in the first place)? Here we go.
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(Paul Graham writes that essays, for him, are means of getting closer to the truth. They need not have definite, final conclusions, but they (or at least the good ones) should always represent at least some progress. I would like to begin this essay in that spirit.)
I am twenty years old. I am in my fifth and final year of taking up an undergraduate degree in physics at the University of the Philippines Diliman. Perhaps not surprisingly, I have no clearly formed idea of what I want to be doing once I finish college.
Physics, the academe, and research
One of the most logical paths to take would be to try and get into a university abroad, to continue my studies. This makes sense because, for one thing, unlike the BS Applied Physics program, which is designed to enable graduates to enter industrial or interdisciplinary careers, the BS Physics program is specifically designed to prepare students for an eventual career in the academe. For another thing, I am not averse to the academic life, and indeed I can see myself enjoying the intellectual exertions, not to mention the relative freedom that it can afford.
However, I am not entirely convinced that I am in the right field. Sure, one might argue that my magna cum laude standing is evidence enough that I have the potential to do fairly well in this field. But I still feel that there's something lacking; doing research and thinking within a physicist's mindset does not come naturally to me. Coursework such as exams and problem sets are challenges that I feel ready and willing enough to tackle, but so far, despite two years of being a member of the Theoretical Physics (research) Group, I still do not seem to have gained any sort of grasp upon the pursuit that is independent research.
Perhaps I feel ill at ease only in comparison with a number of people whom I've met within the Theoretical Physics Group (TPG or Theory from here on). These people are genuinely interested in their work, and can dredge up a seemingly endless amount of enthusiasm and drive. Hearing them talk and seeing how comfortable they feel doing what they do makes me feel like nothing more than an outsider, an imposter among true devotees. It's but a small comfort to realize that surely a good percentage of my batchmates feel the same way.
I don't have much choice but to get myself to do my best, of course, if I am to finish my thesis with any degree of pride. If I don't adequately resolve these hangups soon, there's the chance that the past four years will turn out to be a huge waste of time, academically speaking. I believe the solution would be to just go ahead and start working harder to get used to it, which is easy to say but difficult to actually do.
Love
One always hears it said that we should be doing what we love. The hard part seems to lie in finding out what exactly it is that one loves. I can't say that I love physics, at least not at this point. I don't hate it, it doesn't hate me, but there just doesn't seem to be any significant spark. Now I do realize that it just wouldn't work to just wait for the world to click things into place for me, so I'm not discounting the possibility that I may still fall in love with physics.
It actually has one thing going in its favor: I'm not really doing anything else! I've fallen into the common trap of considering myself as primarily a student, of letting myself be defined by my occupation. I call the inevitable attachment to and identification with habitual roles or activities a trap only when it happens without awareness or intent. Enmeshing me further is a certain variety of pride and sense of duty born of a lifetime of acute grade-consciousness that ensures constant attention to, if not always excellent performance at schoolwork.
I do realize that I am quite justified in being more or less fully preoccupied with my responsibilities as a student, seeing as how working on my undergraduate degree is my biggest endeavor at the moment. Despite this, I think that I should not be neglecting the other aspects of my life, and in particular that I should also be cultivating any other interests, which may branch out into other career options. After all, I might have already met the love of my life; it might just be waiting for me to show it more affection - to prove that I am capable of a deeper commitment.
I am talking of course about my only other major, lasting preoccupation.
Writing
I can remember setting out to write a novel as a young boy in grade school, my writerly instincts stirred no doubt by all the science fiction - grand, exciting, fantastic - I had begun consuming. The attempt didn't amount to anything but a few pages of scribbles and clumsy illustrations, but the damage had been done and up to now, during unguarded moments, I may be caught fancying myself a writer.
The rest of grade school as well as high school passed with barely any blips on the writing radar. With no angst-ridden poetry, no competitions, or even any newsletter positions or submissions, the tendencies lay dormant.
I did start a blog near the end of high school, which marked, I believe, a milestone of sorts. The whole blogging experience has been formative and instructional, no question about it. It's what, nearly single-handedly, kept writing alive for me, even just barely. It's why I'm here right now, trying to figure myself out through this essay. Blogging also proved instrumental to making my current relationship possible, which apart from revealing how geeky we are, also shows how much it has affected my life.
I've tried my hand at non-fiction, mostly journalling, at fiction, and at poetry. Of the three, I seem to find so-called creative non-fiction to be the easiest to write, followed by poetry, followed by what I've found to be the most difficult, fiction. To be more precise, I find it rather difficult - or in fact impossible - to come up with a complete, satisfactorily-resolved piece of fiction. Essays I can manage to close, and poems, but apart from a few excusably vague short pieces, my fiction has never quite formed a complete story.
I've always been interested in writing for various reasons: self-expression, a fascination with precision of meaning or mood, as an aid in contemplation. The little I've written so far vary in quality, with a few pieces worthy of a kind comment and acknowledgment of potential mixed with less remarkable fare. And as I mentioned above, it's been a constant, if inactive at times, interest of mine.
(End of Part I)
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