The Art Of Being Clueless

 i think i’ve accidentally become an expert at being clueless. like genuinely .... it’s almost a talent now. i sit in classrooms where people passionately throw around theories and talk about paper presentations and confidently answer questions with sparkly eyes. and there’s me. sitting there, trying not to look completely lost, playing with my rings or my tote strap, smiling awkwardly because wow…what was that term again?

it’s actually kind of funny. i passed my BA english not because i was deeply in love with literature or because i knew everything like those other people. i survived on self-study, scribbled notes, last minute panic revisions and prayers whispered under my breath. i could get through the syllabus. i could give you a decent answer in an exam. but beyond that? beyond what’s printed in the study material? i’m just blank. clueless.

and it stings sometimes. like today. the prof was talking about passion and research and i could see my classmates just get it. they’re already talking about seminars, papers, ideas. and i was sitting there thinking ... why am i even here? what am i trying to prove? i can’t even present a tiny ppt in class without my hands shaking, and these people are already out there being all scholarly and stuff.

it’s that awkward art of questioning yourself. of standing there clapping for everyone else while wondering what exactly is your thing. do i have a thing? do i have any real skill that’ll get me somewhere? or am i just here because i didn’t know where else to go, and literature seemed soft and safe?

but here’s the weird part. i’m still here. clueless, but here. still waking up, picking out my kurthis and jeans, matching earrings and messy buns. still showing up to class, still scribbling random lines in my notebook even if i don’t fully understand what’s going on. still getting butterflies when someone mentions a poem i actually do love.

maybe that’s the tiny hope inside all this cluelessness. that even if i don’t have it all figured out, even if i’m not the loudest or the smartest or the most passionate, i’m still trying. still curious. still willing to sit in rooms that scare me, still willing to admit i don’t know.

and maybe that’s an art too. the art of being clueless .... and not running away from it. just staying. awkward, small, messy. but staying.