The people we could have been

Exam term is almost upon us, once again. This time last year, I was merrily revelling in the fact that I had no real exams (well, not strictly true - I was attempting to read all of Shakespeare and preparing for another term filled with essays and lectures, but it was relatively light on the work front for Cambridge). However, not even an English undergrad can escape exams forever, and now they're approaching at a rate that is immeasurably faster than I am comfortable with. And, as usual, I haven't done enough revision, so panic levels are steadily rising in a manner that is not conducive to concentrating on anything. I've spent the last couple of hours avoiding my dissertation, which isn't done either and is keeping me from revising. Looking at it makes me feel slightly ill, so I'm retreating to this, my much-neglected blog, because I've managed to convince myself that it is a more acceptable form of procrastination that playing Bubble Shooter online. Of course, at least playing Bubble Shooter is a little less self-indulgent than the monologue I'm about to spew onto the internet, but if I categorise this as 'writing practice' then I feel marginally less like I'm wasting time.

The problem with my lack of motivation and organisation is that I can't reconcile myself to the fact that I have always been like this and probably always will be. If I could accept these facets of my personality and banish the nagging thoughts that I could do better, I could be content. But there will always be a part of me that wonders what kind of success I could have in various areas of my life if I could sort myself out and commit to things more thoroughly. This does not mean that I believe myself to be possessed of great potential, and only held back by laziness. Far from it. But if I worked harder, what could I achieve? What could we all do if we worked harder? Part of me (the lazy part) tells me that actually, I do work quite hard - last term, I wrote fourteen essays and read countless books, which isn't exactly lying around doing nothing all day. I could have done more, though. The bare minimum at my university still entails a massive workload, but it does leave plenty of room for further study. And I am surrounded by people who wouldn't dream of putting in any less than maximum effort into everything. It is not arrogance to wonder if I could get a First if I worked really, really hard, because probably most people in the university could, and the fact of the matter is that I can't work that hard. That's a failing that cancels out potential in any person.

This close to the end of my education, this kind of wonder about what I could be if I were not me is seeping into worries about my future. If I had picked another route, what could I have been? If I were at this moment already doing the absolute most I could to secure a job after my degree, what could I be? I don't exactly have a viable dream job at the moment, so I don't know if I will end up falling short of any ideal I might set out for myself. I do know what I'd do if I had the ability and the drive to make it happen. I would be an author. You may have noticed by these verbose ramblings that I like the sound of my own written voice, but I'm under no illusions that everyone else does. Just suppose, though, that there was a possibility that I could be a writer, and I let it go to waste because I wasn't committed enough. In an impossible universe in my head, Grace Brown is a well-known name. In reality, I recognise that it's not just my lack of motivation that means this dream will go unfulfilled, it's the fact that there are thousands of would-be writers, and the vast majority will never achieve any success. But I can't shake off the feeling that maybe - just maybe - if I fully dedicated myself to my ambition, and never stopped trying to improve and make it happen for myself, I could be something.

At what age do we abandon those dreams we know will probably never come to anything? At what stage in our lives must we finally come to the harsh realisation that we will never be a singer, a footballer, an actor, a fashion designer, an artist, or in my case an author? When do we abandon hopes of being the best and settle for mediocrity? Because some people never come to that realisation. And it's likely that most of them fail. Yet some of them succeed. We can't know if we are one of those people whose improbable ultimate goal is achievable. At some point, though, maybe we have to stop trying for our own sanity. People will tell you that the sky's the limit, etc. Maybe in actual fact, reality is the real limit. But then there will always be that niggling question: who could I have been if I had really tried?