Beyond the Threshold: Finding My Own Academic Voice

 

Beyond the Threshold: Finding My Own Academic Voice 

    There are countless ways to explain an idea. During undergraduate studies, feedback often pushes us to explore these different rhythms and intensities of explanation. It can be overwhelming—and at times, deeply frustrating—to wonder whether our approach fits the established academic norms. Being forced out of our comfort zone feels uncomfortable, even discouraging. Yet paradoxically, it’s in those very moments that we learn the most: we discover that the same concept can be expressed from many different angles, each revealing something new.

The perspective widens even further at the postgraduate stage, especially when we have the chance to provide feedback on undergraduate work ourselves. It’s then that I truly appreciated the richness of academic expression. Sometimes, a few exceptional pieces cross your desk—essays so precise, so creative, and so effective that they leave you in awe. You realize, perhaps for the first time, that ideas can be conveyed more powerfully and beautifully than you ever imagined, raising the bar of what you thought was possible.

But the real transformation happens gradually. In postgraduate life, there’s more freedom to develop your own voice. Once you’ve mastered the foundational, canonical ways of presenting ideas, you earn the space to move beyond them. Explanation becomes less about conforming to a template and more about finding the words and structures that feel truest and most effective to you. It’s about expressing complex thoughts in a way that remains rigorous but is also authentically yours.

This process only works if the academic environment nurtures it—if students are given constructive feedback that builds skills rather than just measuring them. When that happens, it becomes our responsibility to take those tools and use them creatively, moving from external, formulaic explanations to explanations that come from within. It’s a shift from speaking in borrowed voices to speaking in our own.

And that’s when it all makes sense: the frustration, the challenges, the breakthroughs. Each step pushes us past another threshold—until we finally realize that what once felt like limitation was actually the start of genuine freedom to think, write, and explain as ourselves.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 29/06/2025

Echoes of the Self: Identity and Morality Within Dreams

 

Echoes of the Self: Identity and Morality Within Dreams

    Dreams remain an enigmatic and fascinating phenomenon in the study of consciousness. They are an endless topic of inquiry: what exactly are dreams? Why do they sometimes appear vividly and with great detail, while at other times they seem fragmented or are barely remembered at all? Are dreams simply random cognitive processes intensified during sleep, when conscious control of the mind is diminished?

One notable case in sleep research is the 1964 experiment conducted by Randy Gardner, who voluntarily remained awake for 11 consecutive days. This case provided compelling evidence for the necessity of sleep in maintaining both cognitive and physical functioning. Gardner’s condition deteriorated as the experiment progressed—he experienced memory lapses, mood disturbances, and significant impairments in motor coordination. These symptoms support the idea that sleep acts as a restorative process for the body and mind. Extended wakefulness appears to disrupt the system, reinforcing the need for cycles of rest in order to regain optimal functioning.

Metaphorically, sleep—and dreaming—may be viewed as a form of transgression, a step outside the bounds of our waking rationality. Much like certain aspects of life where moments of disruption can foster creativity and insight, dreams may offer a space where the unconscious mind explores scenarios without immediate consequence. Yet, even in dreams, the self remains intact.

On a personal note, I have occasionally experienced vivid dreams in which I was aware of dreaming—a state often referred to as lucid dreaming. During these episodes, I attempted to act freely within the dream, including considering actions I would never undertake in waking life, purely out of curiosity. Interestingly, even within the dream state, I found myself restrained by my moral values; I was unable to perform actions that conflicted with my sense of ethics. This suggests that even in the absence of real-world consequences, our core identity and values persist and influence behavior.

Beyond the anecdotal, I am someone who often reflects on the possible meanings of dreams—when I can remember them. I find value in analyzing their content, searching for symbols or messages that might offer insight or guidance. Regardless of whether these interpretations are scientifically grounded, I believe that dreams have personal significance and deserve attention and care.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 21/06/2025

Swiping Away the Fantasy World

  

Swiping Away the Fantasy World 

“Something in him had shifted”

    For weeks now, Garret Thorthon had been dreaming of a house—an old, weathered place tucked away at the start of the street where he’d grown up. The dreams came uninvited, vivid and oddly persistent. He couldn’t say whether the house was real or simply imagined, a construct pulled from some random dusty corner of his childhood mind.

It wasn’t the kind of house that demanded attention. Set back from the frist line of his street, hidden behind a tangle of fruit trees and broken wood, it lurked like a half-forgotten memory. The yard was unkempt, the structure tired, as if time itself had started to forget it. Garret remembered—or thought he did—that it stood just behind the Stevenson family’s tall, modern building. But that only added to the confusion: the Stevenson place was a towering five-story home, newer, louder, and grander than anything else on the street. Could the house from his dreams have even survived behind it?

During the day, the image of the house would flash into his thoughts like a flickering candle. At first he didn't paid too much attention to it. But one afternoon, with time to spare and curiosity gnawing at him, he gave in. He opened Google Maps, searched for his hometown street, and switched to Street View.

And there it was.

The house was real. The same sagging roof, the pale front windows now framed with new white PVC. Above the second floor, the faint outline of painted letters emerged like a ghost from the past: Miller’s House.

Garret's heart quickened. The dream was based in is real chilwood true life.

As he stared at the screen, a stream of memories returned like whispers on the wind—beginning faintly to then becoming louder and clearer.

He was around ten again. The air was thick with the smell of rain. He and his neighbor friends—maybe siblings, maybe not—had gathered outside after a storm, when the snails came out of hiding. They played with them in the muddy yard, marveling at the glistening trails and curling shells, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was laughter. There was magic at this point.

He remembered seeing an old man under one of the fruit trees. They spoke—about what, he couldn’t recall. That part of the memory had faded like words in a dream. But the feeling remained fresh: warmth, wonder, the unshakable joy of childhood curiosity.

Garret’s young world back then was made of stories. Talking animals, kingdoms ruled by children, witches in candy houses (Hans & Gretel). He adored The Wizard of Oz, especially the idea of being swept away by a tornado into a land where rabbits wore waistcoats and lions could speak. That fantasy had been his truth—every bit as real as the brick walls and schoolbooks of his daily life.

But then, suddently it came a memory that never faded.

It returned slowly, at first just a shadow. But then it sharpened into terrifying focus.

He had wandered closer to Miller’s House. On the porch stood a woman—older, though now he guessed she was barely forty. From behind a rusted cage, she pulled out a rabbit. With a swift, practiced motion, she snapped its neck. Then, as if it were nothing more than a carrot or a loaf of bread, she pierced its skull with a metal hook and hung it beside others—silent, swinging, still.

Garret had watched it all.

He was certain she hadn't seen him. Or maybe she had. It didn’t matter at this point.

Something broke in him. Something delicate and unseen.

That was the moment the fantasy ended. No tornado came to carry him away. No rabbit spoke a word. The worlds of Oz and fairytales vanished like mist under sunlight.

In their place came the real world—where rabbits don’t talk, they die.

And Garret, standing there in the silence of that memory, knew that he had crossed a threshold. The wonder had not vanished completely, but it would never return in quite the same way.

That was the moment Garret was swiped away—not into a fantasy world, but out of it.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 11/05/2025