The Child Who Hated Vacations

Ever since I was little, I have hated school vacations.

I loved going to school, learning new things, and spending time with my friends. I simply could not understand why anyone would force me to stay away from a place I enjoyed so much.

Korean, mathematics, English—it did not matter what the subject was. I just loved learning. I loved the feeling of being completely absorbed in a lesson, and there seemed to be no end to the pleasure of grasping new concepts so quickly. Sometimes, the moment school ended, I would already be wishing for the next morning to arrive.

That was how deeply I loved academic learning.

Even now, I have not changed all that much. The sheer volume of coursework and the weight of academic expectations have left me exhausted, but the part of me that loves knowledge has never disappeared.

Recently, however, the demands of school have begun to exceed what I can reasonably enjoy. The amount I am expected to know and understand has grown exponentially, to the point where continuing my studies without suffering seems almost impossible.

Still, I find immense pleasure in reaching out to touch something unfamiliar and drinking in a new understanding of the world.

On my days off, I enjoy watching hour-long educational videos about fascism. When I was younger, I would watch dozens of videos about quantum mechanics and physics. Sometimes I wonder whether this is why I once wanted to major in philosophy.

After all, the word philosophy comes from the Greek philosophia, literally meaning the love (philo) of wisdom (sophia).

Perhaps it is only when I encounter knowledge and wisdom that I feel most like myself.

I cannot precisely define what it means to be myself, but at least that is how I feel. I love the version of myself that is filled with knowledge. The excitement I feel when peeling the wrapping off a brand-new workbook is a pleasure that belongs entirely to me.

Yet accumulating knowledge does not simply mean storing vast quantities of information in my head.

The person I aspire to become is someone who can truly think, who can approach the world philosophically, and who can live with profound insight into the things around him.

Academic subjects are merely stepping stones toward that ideal.

My decision to study in the United States is closely connected to this aspiration. I do not want merely to memorize information. I want to become someone who genuinely knows how to think, someone who has prepared himself to learn even more.

My goal is to reach this ideal by stepping across countless stones, of which formal education is only one.

I believe the educational approach of many American universities, with their emphasis on discussion and critical thinking, serves precisely this purpose.

I can scarcely imagine how much faster my heart might beat in the heat of an intellectual debate, rather than in a classroom where the air has grown thick with my classmates' breath and carbon dioxide.

Yet as a high school senior, I suppose it would be irrational to indulge in such ideals alone.

Even when academic work has long since ceased to be enjoyable, I am expected to endure it. To be perfectly honest, I do not know exactly why. People around me simply say that this is what being a high school senior entails, that this is the time to persevere, work hard, and refine oneself. And so I quietly accept their words.

Having grown up without experiencing much academic pressure, however, I suspect this unfamiliar burden weighs on me more heavily than it might on others.

What matters, ultimately, is that I am gradually losing my interest in learning.

I have begun to associate the pressure and obligations of schoolwork with the very act of knowing. School was once a place where I could experience the pure joy of learning. Why, then, does it now seem to do little more than drain me?

Even when I try to concentrate in class, my head sinks forward as though someone were gently but relentlessly pressing it down. I struggle to overcome my fatigue and squeeze whatever joy I can out of the lesson, only to find myself drifting into a deep sleep, with the school bell serving as my lullaby.

In the past, when the joy of learning outweighed my exhaustion, I would do everything I could to stay awake. No matter how sleepy I felt, I made sure to absorb each lesson, one idea at a time.

But now that "learning" seems to have been reduced to nothing more than "coursework," I am left with a strange sense of unfamiliarity.

Where has the child gone who could barely contain his excitement at receiving a glossy new textbook?

How did he become someone who rests his head on a mountain of books and uses them as a pillow?

Perhaps it is only after enduring this long stretch of time that I will finally be able to find myself again. I realize this may be a somewhat escapist thought, but I cannot help entertaining it.

I believe I am passing through a period in which I must fulfill the responsibilities expected of a high school senior.

I only hope that one day I will love learning again and rediscover my longing for wisdom.

It may sound like a grand ambition, but for me, it is little more than a habit I have carried since childhood.

To be deprived of the joy of learning is, in a sense, to be deprived of one of my reasons for living.

That is how deeply I am devoted to the love of wisdom.

I am, at heart, a philosopher in the most literal sense of the word: a lover of wisdom.

Of course, I do not imagine that entering university will magically restore the pure delight I once found in learning.

It is simply my wish, my desire to hold on to at least one reason for living with certainty.

I want to become a philosophical person again.

I want to look once more at that fleeting glimpse of myself I had finally begun to discover.