the missing participant

There is something about non participation that triggers something within me. I know what sort of person I am; the unforgiving perfectionist type. I have failed at many things, but most of all, I have failed to even try. I believe this to be a most terrible crime about myself.

It is only the end of week one in a new university year, and there is an air of anticipation and optimism around the campus. I always notice that people dress their best for the first day. Apart from those who dress well all year round, there seems to be an influx of chic people strutting around, eager and aware. Occasional dresser as I am, I attended class with a keenness that was probably misplaced for the introductory week of a semester.

Having finished these unnecessary tutorials I have learnt nothing of the unit content, but something different altogether.

I will be honest and admit that I am an ignorant individual. The reason I say this is because I lack the curiosity and urge to be involved. I am no prolific reader or writer, nor film viewer, musician or art appreciator. I am neither aware nor involved in the events that surround me. I feel complacent, comfortable and closed off from the world outside of my personal bubble. And as I sit here and examine myself I am startled by the great degree of my non participation. That is, non participation in life.

This realisation has been growing within me for some months (might I say, years). It is an issue that I continually return to, and, as odd as it seems, wish to explore and dissect. So while I cannot begin to explain my varying thoughts on this issue, I know that I cannot (and will not) shy away from it.

This year is still young, and while the roots of my problems have burrowed their way into the ground, I am somewhat optimistic. I believe that this is a problem that I share with others. For them and myself I know that there is always a starting point for change.

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