While eating pasta and drinking water, the toll one’s body pays for college, I’m reading Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s House of Life again. Damien Rice’s live discography plays on my laptop. Soft, warm lamp light illuminates the page I’ve written notes on, trivial matters soon to be narrowed and polished into an essay:
- hair (Rossetti is obsessed!)
Leading into more symbols and such for a paper that resembles all others and such. Boring.
Even if I had a chance to do it over again, pick some other couple of majors or a different career path… I’d still choose this submergence into words, these tombs of past poets, authors, and journeymen.
The more I struggle with sentences, the less I struggle with myself. I wish it made more sense, and that I could find more happiness in something grounded. Although, whenever I’m not burning from creativity, I’m a zombie walking in thin air.
I don’t see a path; I just see a cause.