Today I sit here making an effort to write. College assignments are needing to be done, but I've decided to blog. My coffee today is a hazelnut latte from Lincoln Espresso.
I've recently been undergoing a bit of a creative drought. As the young people say, "it blows chunks". I feel that some of this is due to other stressors that have built up gradually. Kinda like mineral deposits that make up the water ring in a toilet bowl. It makes me feel crappy, ironically enough. One of the big things that I continuously have been putting off is this mother of a research paper that we've been working on all semester long. I know that it isn't the right attitude to have about school work, but I absolutely detest everything about it. The laborious research, quoting said research, and the tedious organization to make a coherent argument that I could give a damn about. Evidently it is a valuable skill to be able to write cohesive research papers and work through problem-solution arguments and blah blah bullshit. So what I've been doing is sitting on the edge of a pool and pushing the paper's head back under the water, hoping it'll drown eventually. But alas, its resilience prevails and here I am, bitching about it on my blog.
Its a sad, pathetic, hopeless feeling to have something laid out so perfectly in front of you with step by step directions on how to accomplish the task, and still you manage to ffffff-mess it up. I must have missed a memo somewhere about how to do things and process like a normal person. That's what life feels like at times. However, it remains true that I am not the only human being on this planet who does or has felt this. Anyways, in the course of thinking these things, I pondered my day and feelings and time spent with my on-campus counselor who does her best to figure out what I'm saying. While thinking these things, I decided to write. Here's the free-form abstractish madness that came out:
"I sit on the edge of my bed as my sluggish brain closes its sleep function and attempts to make me arise. I get on my feet and trip over junk that my foggy vision neglected to warn me about. I don’t have the energy to swear about it. The person that stares back at me in the bathroom mirror looks like hell; A confused, unshaven, squinty-eyed face tries to remember who it belongs to. I manage to piss on the floor before aiming the rest into the toilet bowl. I sigh. Another day has begun and my caged brain is becoming keenly aware. There is an extremely fine line between entering the shower or relapsing back into bed, the latter of which feels much easier. The hot water turns chilly too soon and I walk my unfit toweled frame to the closet. Decisions, decisions. I feel my eyes close as I stand in place, focus lost. After regaining coherence, I dress myself very slowly. My back pack’s contents are scattered in a similar fashion to my morning mind. I collect the books and pencils, shoving them into my bag. Good enough. Too lazy for socks, I slip on flimsy flip-flops and trudge out the door through dewy grass to my car.
I planned to nap, considering my attendance was the main thing that mattered. The discussion grabs my attention, however, and I find myself paying attention. Then all at once, I’m asleep with my neck in a very uncomfortable position against the wall next to me. Class ends and I stumble out of the room to my next engagement.
I’m in my counselor’s office and she’s is advising me. I know she means well, but I don’t understand the logistics of it all. Everything is ideal. I respond to questions with answers I know I should say because I can’t seem to explain the real truth of anything I feel. I stare at the hazelnut latte in my left hand while my other fingers thump the arm of the chair making random beats. I hear speech coming from the chair diagonally left of me but I realize that I am not listening. I’m truly not in the room at the moment. She thinks I am, but I’m unconsciously dabbling in the future and sulking in the past. I nod, trying to acknowledge and affirm the words of the professional. Everything is ideal. I see the reasons behind the logical structure she offers me; I just don’t see how to apply or relate to it. The advice and plans make sense as ideas, but I imagine them falling apart upon entering the real world. My life. Everything is a theory. I blink rapidly, taking on the reality of it all. She didn’t have solutions for me. Just guesses. Just hopes. I feel constricted by something. A poison or a noose. Some lethal unidentifiable threat. A malignant tumor. Doctors must run tests on patients to find the problem. She had thoughts. But a suggestion doesn’t cure sickness. And an answer is different than an antidote."
I don't have anything else immediately to talk about other than to mention the fact that a lot of my friends are starting blogs now that I've had one for months. I feel quite hipster. Although, as Alex told me "If a person considers themselves a hipster, they're probably just an asshole". To which I replied "I don't really fit that 'hipster mold'". Ironic right? That is all, pumpkins.