Late Night Nagging

School.

It is a massive machine that grinds out the curious conscious of a person. It fills the mind with temporal facts that have no seeming use or application in the immediate desires. Before me there is always a path. This path has always been my own. My certainty of it wanes each time I prostitute my desires out to others.

God. I swear. Since I’ve been in college, I sure know a lot more. Sure sounds like a good thing. Trouble is, I feel like every passing day I know less and less about myself. I become more and more of someone else.

I need to figure this out. Do I like school, or do I hate it? Do I really like it? I mean, I choose a major, or at least one of them, because it brought about a deep fascination within me. Economics? Enthralling. Sometimes dry, but interesting as hell. Philosophy? Supremely delightful. I enjoy mediating and assimilating its meaning into my life. I enjoy the process of understanding, and attaining an enlightening that illuminates the remote recesses of nonsense. I truly enjoy learning. But school. What is it? It is hurried and depersonalized. It leaves me feeling gorged. I don’t have time to digest it and make it apart of me. I regurgitate or excrete it as quickly as possible to move on to the next topic, to survive. I want to thrive. I want to set ends and goals that are mine and mine alone. I want to take my damn time. It is a process. Learning is a process that involves close intimate acquaintance. Learning should be growth, not accretion. Living things do not grow by piling on matter to their being. No. They grow by taking it in within themselves. They digest it, slowly, so as to utilize every modicum of nutrition and energy to propel it to the next meal.

I cant even think straight. My thoughts are fragmented.

I’m going to try to assemble fragmented thoughts. It doesn’t matter if they make sense. They don’t need to rhyme. I am a confused person. But I’m not. I will never take 18 credit hours again. I don’t even know who I am. I can’t enjoy the material. I can’t get into it. Its all for nothing, so it seems. I mean, I love knowledge, I love learning, I love thinking, and it would seem that I am growing in these things, but it doesn’t feel that way. Yea, more and more. Less and less. Less and less of a person, that’s what I feel. Less and less sure of myself. Less and less confident in what and who I am. Mostly an act. A facetious act. I am an actor. We are all actors.

I have the uncanny ability of adaptation. Why do I say this? Well, because I not only survive, I thrive. Whatever the environment is, I excel so long as I want to be there. The catch is developing the ability of wanting to be there. Of course people can adapt to things they like. The trouble is when they don’t like the situation. That is where my erudition lies. In the ability to choose, decisively, at will.

But therein lies a foible. There is no reason to choose one over another. My choices appear more aesthetic than pragmatic. The criteria hinges on whims, on wandering wonder, on the efflorescent imagination and possibility. This endless world is imbrued with indeterminacy. The self: incomplete.

I have so many things I want to write about. I file them away in the back of my mind and there they lay, day in and day out, collecting dust. I never go back and tend to them. They just keep accumulating.

I have stories I want to tell. I’ll begin with some of the freshest. I’ll get them out as quickly as possible. Better sooner than later. I can revise and refine and rekindle and remake the story once its captured. Too much time allows the acuity for details to whither and warp.