As I finished typing out the last article of my one-month internship, I couldn’t help looking back at the futility of the rash decision that I had made four weeks ago:
Four of my friends, coaxing and motivating, huddled over me as I sat in that dimly lit room in college, weeping inconsolably. Reason? Failure. Failure of living up to my own expectations. I was afraid, afraid of the success of my classmates and the lack of my own. In plain words, I needed work. I didn’t want my resume to look as blank as the inside of my head. I was afraid that I’d be obliterated into a void, sucked into an ocean of nothingness. This monster of a fear urged me to apply to random internship programs that crossed my way. I finally got one- it was for a leading aggregator of hotel rooms that needed you to write reviews on their hotels across the country.
Today, a month after deciding to accept that internship, I can’t help regretting and moaning those two hours daily (for a month) that I spent writing flowery lines on hotels that meant nothing to me, that I’ve never set my eyes on. In other words, two hours a month of writing paragraphs of lies. Because I was desperate for an embellishment on my CV, I didn’t think twice before agreeing to spend hours on something I didn’t care tuppence about. This loss of time has left me at a loss for words.
Those moments could’ve have been seized, you know. I could’ve done something worthwhile, like writing poetry or trying to get my grip back on fiction. There was so much I could have done.
I should have known better. Really, I should have.