The Purgatory
Art is long and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
-- H. W. Longfellow
Poetry is famous for in brevity and wit describing feelings unlike any other forms of text. An extract from A Psalm of Life by Henry ("The Beard") W. Longfellow, the first line in this quatrain epigram describes how I wished I felt about educating my stubborn mind above the masses of society; the last three describe how I actually feel, in this very moment.
Exams are closing in. I was a few heartbeats from the grave, symbolically or diabolically almost failing my first year for not being active enough in an inane (twist that tongue of yours!) experiment participation scheme. Then, like a fresh wind carrying me out of the purgatory, came the realisation, or epiphany if I were religious. Essays are to be written, exams to be sat; but in a year's time, art will still be long, and time still fleeting.