Finished.

It is a weird feeling, to be finished.

Once you've finished something, there is the question of continuing or going on to something else.
-Example: Boy, I just finished all that cake and ice cream. I can't decide if I want more, or if I want a nap.

I finished the first draft of my first novel, At Last, At Anchor, about a month ago. I finished my final exams about a week ago, thus finishing the fall semester of my junior year.

After finishing my book, I felt a surge of accomplishment. It was as if my typewriter had shot out some kind of magical pixie dust after the last few words were set in print, and I'd caught some of it on my tongue. It felt both magical and amazing. Pixie dust tastes an awful lot like regular dust, but you know it's not the same by the way you feel after you ingest either.

However, afterward, I felt a weird repulsion whenever I attempted to write again. It was as if my brain was saying "you don't have to write anymore; you just wrote an entire book." Thankfully, this sensation went away after a short while, when I forced some more of that pixie dust out of my typewriter and got back to work a couple weeks later.

Then I started writing on this blog again.

I've always felt weird about school.

School has always felt like more of an obligation than an object of joy. For example, even though I'm interested in Physics and Biology and Neuroscience, the only way I'd be able to get a job/research/explore-these-interests-further-while-also-making-a-living is by getting the requisite grades in classes. These classes are taught by professors who may or may not have the same interests as me and may or may not be good at presenting the material in a way that isn't difficult to grasp.

Despite this, I know that I won't ever give up on college or writing. So I guess the point of this blog is to point out that, as much as we'd like to be, we're never finished. Until we are.