I'm at college, supposedly writing a speech for a public speaking competition. Lately I can't write unless under extreme pressure - I'll probably stay up the night before the competition in order to get it done. I'm restless in a way I've never felt before - I can't concentrate on anything for very long, can't focus, can't seem to direct my thoughts or force myself to do anything. My lack of productivity worries me - what kind of English Literature student reads Glamour magazine instead of Orwell? Yet literature still fills my thoughts - I worry that I have become Holden from catcher in the rye. I think this is fairly accurate - I search for answers I know do not exist and dream of running away to places I know I will never visit, and make plans for no reason other than to make plans. Perhaps I should run away, and talk to nuns about Romeo and Juliet, and get drunk and smash the special records I bought for siblings. Perhaps I should run away with musical brother - "my boss talks of wanting to just drop it all,live in the country and survive with his own hands. i like that ideal. back to how it should be. no computers, television, supernoodles, any shit like that. i'd allow myself books of course, as reading is a form of entertainment. and a newspaper so i know whats happening in the world, and then comfort myself by knowing that im no part of it. i would have to have music of course. probably a vinyl player,a radio, and convert all my CD's to tape. theres something strangely beautiful about poor quality audio. rewinding or fast forwarding to get to that one song, waiting a couple of minutes only to hear a muffled crackly mono piece. digital is so easy. too easy. press a button and there the track plays, same quality every time. i want to live my life like a vinyl. i hate the desk job digital lifestyle." - we can become consumed by our own apathy and stay up late discussing the genius of others and why our generation went so wrong. We don't want to save the world but we don't want you to try. I don't drink to numb the pain but to fill the numbness with feeling. There's a girl on the computer next to me writing a terrible essay. I shouldn't read over people's shoulders but I do. I'm holding msyelf back from pointing out to her how it could be improved. I just passed an open door, and three leaves blew in and landed at my feet. All perfectly formed oak leaves in glorious autumn shades, and now I'm thinking about death and rebirth, and phoenixes (phoenixi?) and fire and leaves and beauty. And I know if I could just sit still long enough there's a poem in there somewhere.
< - >
* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to
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