I don't know how he does it...

..."he" being my high school ex, currently enrolled at Berklee College of Music. Sometimes, when things are rough here, I fantasize about going to school there (for the music, dumbasses), but thinking realistically, I'm not sure I could take it without burning out. I mean, today I had an hour of music theory, an hour of composing on my own, then an hour of musical dictation (writing out two or more part harmony played to us on piano). And that's not even counting the two hours of band practice.
The end of the last paragraph was where I was going to say my brain was completely drained, but you know what? I just realized that isn't true. Who am I kidding? When I think about the vast amount of musical things I've done in the last two years, my main reaction is disappointment at myself for not doing more. I love the Zen-like meditative state I can reach just by playing a solo over well-known chord changes. Composing, which I've just started working on this past week, makes me happy to the point where when I walk around by myself, people look at me weird because I'm figuring out polyrhythms in my head. So there goes that rationalization. Damn.
It gets hard sometimes, the "Why am I here again?" factor. The part of my brain that makes me wake up early to go to a class I won't particularly learn anything from because if I don't, well, that's at least a hundred dollars wasted. The realization that my degree will be worth only slightly more than the parchment it's printed on. The fact that although I have, statistically, a ten percent chance of marrying a classmate (and thus taking something tangible from the college experience), that's just not the sort of thing that happens to people like me. Not to mention my lack of a car, which, although it may seem like a spoiled complaint, means I feel trapped in this quasi-utopian oasis, dependent on the generosity of friends for the smallest glimpse of the outside world.
Eh. Sure beats living with the parents, though.