It's interesting that my last post should just have happened to have been about (is that even a tense?) broken dreams, because... well, I suppose it wasn't exactly all that much of a dream for me, and I'm sure there are many more people who wanted it more than myself, but... well. I might as well tell you what the hell it is I'm blabbering on about before I go any further, eh?

What I refer to here is my Oxford application. I received a letter today quite incontrovertibly denying my entry. Yes, that's right: I'm not Oxford material, it would seem. *sigh* And the thing that's so particularly heart-crushing about it is, this wasn't even my idea: it was that of my personal tutor - a wonderful woman, of whom I think I have made mention in earlier blogs.

Anyways, that's what happened. Now, I'm not going to pretend as though I wanted the place particularly badly - because I didn't - but I can't help feeling at least slightly disappointed about it. That was earlier, in any case: I feel somewhat better about it now (unless some part of my unconscious mind is still grieving, that is).

The thing is, I'm not quite sure what to think. I thought perhaps getting it down on paper (or cyberspace) would help clarify matters. Alright, here goes:

Reasons Not to be Bitter

1. The others who applied for the place I might have had were equally intelligent, if not more so, were quite pleasant people and were definitely more dedicated than myself. There is no shame in losing to your betters.
2. This was something that I never really wanted myself in any case: if it had been up to me, I would never have taken the shot, so what's the big deal anyway?
3. This doesn't mean I'm a failure as a person: it just means I don't quite crack up to Oxford standards. So screw them if they think I'm not good enough for them - I'm good enough for my friends, my family and, most importantly, me.
4. What, so the world's ended just because I didn't get into Oxford? There're other universities that'll be just as pleased to have me - and who knows, maybe they'll end up better suiting me and my life than Oxford would've.
5. At the very least, they considered me. That's something, right? They interviewed me, after all: that means that, if I'm not the absolute best, then at least I'm damn close to it. And the fact that I'm a public-schooler means it's even more impressive, surely? Any toff with the right connections can get in, but I worked my way to an interview.

Reaons Why I Find This Upsetting

1. It's yet more proof that, in the world of academia and therefore in the world in general, I am a big failing failure who does nothing but fail at everything he turns his hand to.
2. Oxford is the best; the creme de la creme of all the universities in Britain - hell, the entire world. And I didn't get in. How the hell am I gonna live knowing I'm not one of the best?!
3. I had this whole idea of how my life was gonna be when I went to Oxford: that I'd go to St. Peter's, have fun there, make lots of new friends, do the work and get the degree... and then maybe meet that special someone there and get a great job as a result of the famous 'connections' one is meant to garner in such a place... I just thought it was destiny, you know? And then I got rejected, and that whole new, exciting life got washed away right before my eyes...

Well, there it is: I've written down everything I think pertinent to how I feel about the situation. However, I also feel it important to write this last bit down; it's a paragraph from Aberystwyth Mon Amour by Malcolm Pryce (a great film noir style detective story set in Aberystwyth, Wales of all places - definitely in the 'if you haven't read this why not?' category); a paragraph that gave me a measure of solace as I read it on the bus today, mere hours after receiving the letter. Here it is.

'I've thought about that night many times in the years since. Wondering whether, had I altered certain details of it, certain phrases or order of words, or even if I'd been in a better mood, it might have changed the course of subsequent events. It's an easy trap to fall into - the habit of parcelling up the past into a series of neat turning points; to load incidents with a power to alter the course of events which they never possessed. Not seeing that a moment which appears pivotal in the context of an evening is really only reflecting a process which has been unfolding unseen for many months. Like a heart seizure is just the sudden outward manifestation of a lifestyle. Sometimes I ask myself if I really believe that and I realise I have no choice. The alternative scenario: that my actions that night might have made a difference, is too painful to examine in view of how that evening ended. I took Bianca home.'

That paragraph might seem rather dark, and it is, but it gave me some form of affirmation. It said to me: 'What's done is done. You cannot change it, so don't fret over it.' This is something I have often said to myself, but too often do I forget things and need others to remind me.