(A poem resulting from earning PhD, and then living for a few months with the consequences)
Redundancy comes not crashing, but pressing
Its weight is heavy on my mind, my spirit, my soul
I don’t believe I have a spirit or a soul
Yet these are what I sense being crushed, squeezed
Like a head-cold
My sense of superfluity surges from somewhere within
Yet is an intruder
Were you always lurking, awaiting your moment
You did not pounce, but rather slunk
And now you threaten to drown or to suffocate
Which, I cannot tell
Your design for me is not what I desire
I am Master of a tiny universe
I am an ‘expert’
But I seem largely to fail
I fail to pass muster
Fail to notice
Fail to remember
Fail to see the point
Fail to win the argument
Fail to make sense, even
Yet I achieved… what?
Who does this help, this PhD?
Not me!
I can’t get a job
But of course, I have a job
Albeit not one I want
Because I don’t know what that is
And no one appears to want me
Although we go through the motions
They go through the motions
Although ‘motions’ overstates what they are
They move with all the power and grace of tectonic plates
Deciding my fate
I have a doctorate
‘Well done, mate’
I’m an expert
So why the hell does everything seem so bleak?
Why can’t I smile?
I need to lie down, or go for a run
Can’t I please just play drums?