Complaintance

I need to finish writing this essay and beginning writing another. It’s 430. I am on entirely too much stimulants, wide awake and rambling. I have two papers due tomorrow, one at 10am, the other at 1pm. I am coming to grips that the second will very well be handed in late. I asked for an extension last week but was denied on grounds of fairness. Oh well.

This semester, and pretty much every successive semester since I’ve been at Vanderbilt, I’ve let myself care less and less about taking on the stress of failing or inadequacy. Anxiety plagues me, and at this school there’s so much pressure to perform. Its practically ruined my ability to excel and maintain a sense of self and peace.

I need to write more. Its killing me that I don’t. When I write, the core of my being is alive. That’s about the only time it is. Writing and conversing. But conversing is short lived, like everything. Writing is eternal and intimate. It endures.

My greatest pleasure is sharing my soul, be it with myself or another. My greatest fear is that this will not be well received. But like any fear, that is irrational. I cannot appease myself, nor can I appease the tastes and whims of those whom I engage with.

I need to write more often… more stories. Less expectation. More feeling. More passion. More heart. More umph. More of whatever it is that moves me and fuels me.

Alright, enough rambling… off to write.