Tonight is a Night for Flying

New to writing on the internet. Still uses notebooks and still has to wash pen stains of her right and left hands.

10/28
2009

  • Slow Death

    I have come to a realization that I have no business doing what I want to do. I have given up the idea of brilliance because it is a superfluous endeavor that only leaves one wanting.

    My classes are proving to me that I am a person who is too wrapped up in the complexity of her own ideas to express them in the coherence of grammatical mechanisms.  Yes, I am nineteen years old and I cannot express myself.  This is a devastating realization when for most of your life all you thought you wanted was to write.

    Everything I write is riddled with errors.  I am asked to analyze, specify, clarify, synthesize, proof read, and it is all in within a definite limit. These tasks most people around me can do with such startling efficiency that I am left spending hours grappling with a paper of a mere 300 words.

    And I it is because of this that I cannot be understood.  This is the single most thing that kills me the most.

    The mirror reflects this disillusionment from the bags under my eyes to the hole in my head.  I am reduced to merely waiting and a desperate wanting for betterment. Waiting consumes me whether it is waiting for my hair to grown or waiting for my body to become something I want.  And though it all I am still stuck in the mental traps that Maria taught me to get out of.

    I guess  I just don’t know.