'With writing we have second chances.' -- Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathan Safran Foer
I don't write anymore. And for a student who originally attended college thinking to become a writer, that's disappointing and even depressing.
I will now define what it means for me to write. Writing is more than words on a page. Writing is discourse with oneself and any who read. This post can only barely be considered writing.
I've tried to figure out why I don't really write. I think it is because I've had to write too much. Too many papers that I've bullshitted my way though, pages of drivel for a meaningless grade. I don't want to write like that. I want to write something meaningful. It doesn't have to be fiction as I once thought my calling was. It doesn't have to be long. Only worthwhile.
So I write this as a plea to myself and to any who read. I need a muse. I need inspiration. I need to be out of school. Out of the pressure of writing what I don't care about. I want to care about something, but apathy is way to strong.
I've found many things about myself this semester. Some terribly frightening and some refreshing. I've figured out that the biggest lesson I've learned thus far at university is how to pass by doing as little as possible. Good. That should get me far. I've learned that I'm altogether too cynical. I need to begin to see the love in the world and stop focusing on the despair. I think my major plays a strong part in my cynicism, but it doesn't have to be this way.
Graduation is coming. All to fast, but also it is just so far away. I'm hoping to pass my classes. I wonder if my hope will be actualized. I couldn't be happier to get out of school, but being a 'real person' is pretty daunting. I've no idea what I will be doing in six months. So many things come into play. I must get a job to pay for living. My parents will not be taking care of me as they have since I was born. I've never been independent financially. I have to decide on which side of the mountains to reside. (Nice consonance, no?)
I think that getting out of school will greatly improve my writing. I will no longer be required to write papers that hold no interest to me. I will perhaps have less time than I now do, but I should also have less distraction.
The last question is this: do I even want to write? Why do I cling to that? And in answer I have only the feeling of feebleness and inadequacy when I cannot write. I want to be able to pour myself into my school work, but I cannot. I want to fill the blank pages of Word documents. But my mind does not acquiesce to my desires. Circular, dribbling puddles of words form. I have the ability to construct sentences, but nothing means anything to me anymore.
The only thing that makes sense anymore is music. And even that, not consistently. People confuse me, both generally and specifically. Time, culture, even God (especially) is not a bit clear. Everything is clouded, smudged, distorted. I don't know who I am, and I feel that only writing can free me. Yet I cannot write.