Also, it occured to me that I will always love what I love, and allowing academia and unrealistic perfectionism to cloud my passion seems a needless waste. Not being able to understand high brow jargon has never dulled my appreciaton for a poem, and neither did the fact that I wasn't the best history student in the world make the Forum any less interesting when I stood in the ruins. If anything, I have never been motivated by the cerebral, but the emotion behind it all, and I have only tried to be analytical and logical because something convinced me that I should. Yet at the end of the day, I'm just the person that's a little too maudlin for most people's tastes, reading Yeats aloud from memory to my friends and tearing when I talk about why I like a novel.
I will always remember the sun on that day in Rome, anyway, the quizzical way my parents looked at me when I wanted to take pictures of pillars and columns and Caesar's grave, and the way the air smelt, potent with the wonder that only the past can impart; that old world in which I will always mine new spaces of my own.
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