Attention: The following is an excerpt from an infected student’s diary and has been distributed to warn against the spreading sickness. For your safety, contact The Texas A&M University System Board of Regents if you notice any similar symptoms of thought in your fellow classmates IMMEDIATELY. 

I am a sick [REMOVED FOR IDEOLOGICAL CONTENT].

The outbreak began last year after a professor became infected. Fortunately, the University of Mechanized and Automated Thinking, or UMAT, wanted to protect us from contamination, so it forced her to practice intellectual distancing.

In an effort to control future spread, however, UMAT set forth additional rules banning any sort of thinking. Nonetheless, it soon became evident that even further sterilization of our campus was necessary.

Practically overnight, the virus had mutated into its Platonic Form, which, naturally, required the burning of any related readings. Students — myself included — were conscripted into aiding … yes, it was a pleasure to burn. But I had already begun to feel strange by then; I didn’t yet understand what was wrong with me. 

By the time UMAT cut the [REMOVED FOR IDEOLOGICAL CONTENT] and [REMOVED FOR IDEOLOGICAL CONTENT] Studies program, it was already too late. 

My symptoms violently manifested on a bright, cold day in April. I was attempting to focus during class, but my peers kept prattling about a viral professor’s post on X that demanded writers be required to read. 

Obviously, this is a ridiculous notion; vocabulary has nothing to do with reading. True art can only emerge when unsullied by exposure to other minds. It would be as though you expected a chef to eat — or worse, a composer to listen to music. All creatives are simply born complete, and to suggest otherwise is blatantly heretical to the art form. 

But as I went home, I found myself increasingly agitated, unable to quell the peculiar feeling that — to my utter disgust — I … agreed with the professor. It was a sentiment that kept me up that night, and I’ve been turning it over in my mind ever since. 

Yes, that’s the horrifying truth: I — thought about it. 

Despite knowing all too well that “thinking” is a serious disease, these subversive tendencies have seeped into every part of me, poisoning my mind with reflection and nuance. It’s revolting. 

I find myself afflicted well into the night; I’ll begin with how reading someone else’s words undoubtedly taints your own creative abilities, detracting from your a priori talent. And suddenly, I’ll be overtaken by a perspective — of all things — that asks: Does not everything one encounters leave a trace on the mind to some extent? Why would writing be any exception? 

God, I’ll never be able to sleep again.

I’ve become sick, it is clear; I never had thoughts before, but now I am incessantly plagued by them. I’m afraid — I can feel the infection spreading into multiple perspectives. I can feel one of the fits coming on even now … if reading taints one’s ability to write, then wouldn’t that be akin to saying a professor teaching corrupts a student’s ability to learn? What sickness! 

I am exceedingly unwell, disturbed, in despair. This illness has metastasized into a cancer. Apparently, I’ve developed a soul: I [REMOVED FOR IDEOLOGICAL CONTENT], therefore I am. 

Isabella Garcia is an economics senior and senior opinion columnist for The Battalion.