
Warm, sudden understanding that reminds you, for one bright hour, why you came here at all.
The discussion runs ten minutes over and nobody in the room seems to mind, least of all you — your hand goes up without the usual hesitation, not because you have to, but because you actually want to know the answer. The Sun doesn't explain itself; it just pours in warm, and today one class is doing exactly that, lighting up a corner of your brain the rest of the week keeps in shadow.
This is the whole reason "why did you come to college" ever had a real answer underneath the practical one. Let this hour be proof the curiosity is still fully intact. Carry a little of its warmth with you into the classes that don't spark it quite this bright.
what may cross your path
This is why I came. Let me remember it on the harder days.
Your advisor breaks the news gently: the one class you genuinely love doesn't fulfill a single requirement, doesn't move the degree an inch closer to finished, exists entirely outside the official plan you're paying tuition to complete. The Sun's warmth is undeniable and, reversed, entirely impractical — joy that the transcript has no box for.
A friend asks "so what's it even for," not unkindly, and you don't have a tidy answer. That's allowed. Not everything worth doing has to justify itself on a degree audit — some things just get to be the part of the week that felt alive.
what may cross your path
Joy doesn't need to be practical to be worth keeping.