I keep my word, I finish everything I begin, and I exalt this sense of responsibility as a virtue. Quitting was never an option for anything. Pinasok mo, tapusin mo was what I’d always tell myself.
But recently, I’ve realized that there are higher virtues than commitment.
***
I am currently in my second year of law school. I did not always want to be a lawyer, but taking up legal studies seemed like the most logical choice. When I took and passed the LAE after College, I figured I should take it as a sign that this was perhaps something I was meant for.
Certainly the past 1 ½ years were anything but easy, but I survived somehow. Some of the horror stories about law school are true; as true as some are overrated perhaps, but true nonetheless. They’re harrowing, but they’re never enough to disenchant you, really: In truth, the workload is manageable, and the teachers more often than not give the students what they deserve. Classroom politics plateau eventually, as it does elsewhere. At some point, you learn who to trust and what to believe. Eventually, things stabilize.
And things have in fact stabilized for me. But this stability, I fear, has brought me everything but happy thoughts and cotton candy. With the turbulence of the first year jitters now over, with my niche in tact and a measure of security somewhat in store, I find myself least amused and most tired than I’ve ever been. I’ve started dreading going to class every day, and often end up not going at all. Each case I read I pray to be the last. In the alternative, I don’t read and pray that I look inconspicuous and generic enough not to be called to recite. Whether fortunately or not, my tactics have worked so far.
But I don’t really want to stick to around to find out for how long. Not this time, anyway.
If I were me two years back, I would probably try to slap some sense into me, or sleep this ennui off: I’m two years shy of a law diploma; two years shy of being able to know enough to change the world in my own little way, as the cliché goes; and two years shy of earning the respect of colleagues and teachers who thought I couldn’t do any better.
But two years in law have changed me. I cannot now, for the life of me, see what lies beyond those long, two years. Two years to me amount to two years worth of cases unread and provisions un-memorized, two years of studying not for the sake of learning but merely to get by, two agonizing years spent in silence inside the dreary library or the chilly classrooms. Two years more of this—of not being happy.
And I don’t want to remain unhappy. I am not happy where I am at right now, and I will not waste two more years trying to convince myself that I am. Two years from now, I will be 24, and by then, I would have thrown more of my early twenties to the throes of mediocrity.
***
Aristotle said that happiness is the end most sought for. And indeed it is. Of course Aristotle probably referred to that happiness beyond the measly glee brought about by novelty or youth, or the fleeting gladness in temporality. But philosophical abstractions notwithstanding, things are often simpler than they seem: When you don’t think you’re happy, you probably aren’t.
And if there’s anything I’m certain of right now, it’s that I know that I’m not.
And this is why, for once, I will give up. That much I owe to myself. And when I do, I will never be prouder because despite appearances, quitting will be by far the bravest thing I would have ever done.
And so, dear Malcolm, allow me to wind up, before I bid you adieu to see the world.
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