Here I am. In the library. My heart is definitely in my chest. I can feel it surge to the top of my throat, ebbing and flowing with feelings as I search for meaning within myself.
I feel routine. I want novelty. I was laying in bed last night, eyes open and locked on the ceiling, thinking about my life. When you recognize you are in control, and you ask yourself what you want, and you don’t know, or you’re doing everything you can pretty much ask of yourself, what can you do? Where does that leave you?
I’m writing a paper on a radical environmentalist. Correction: I’m suppose to be writing a paper on a radical environmentalist. Instead, I’m typing away, trying my best to allow some thoughts to escape as a means to relieve the pressure within my head.
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Last night, I was in my bed, thinking many thoughts about matters of significant value in my life, yet these thoughts, that seemed so valuable, failed to lead me to any answers. No. I refuse to acknowledge my faulty perspective. The truth is, I was tired, slightly burnt from typing non-stop throughout the day, and my mind wanted rest.
Do you ever feel that you sometimes lack the working material to craft new ideas? I suppose that’s what they call inspiration. Where do we look for this inspiration? Where do we gather the material that usually seems to be right beneath our noses?
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Snow hills, steep and slippery. The walkways are platted in a brown slush. I skip over the puddles of mud and ice, walking with my head down. Some days I look up and smile at a passerby. I like smiling. I like smiling with my eyes. It makes them smile. People know that which is real. Today I look down at the puddles. The trees are frosted with a light snowy powder. Chimney’s breath gentle clouds of steam high into the air. The sky matches the dull look in my eye, gray and lifeless.
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William Dare 