Literary Tattoos Always Look Better on their Pages.
I haven't been much in the mood for writing lately. I'm struggling to keep my head above the waters before I drown in schoolwork. Essays, fuckin essays. But I have been gearing up for a week-long celebration of books that is about to commence throughout the first week of December. My list of books has been carefully crafted, and every time I walk through the front door their alluring covers flirt with my eyes, singing their siren's songs and nearly drawing me overboard. My eyes are growing heavy with sleep but I want to put tomorrow off for as long as I can, because I will have to pick up from where I left off on my essay on "The Merchant of Venice". Not that Shakespeare is bad, I'm just eager to study the aspects of literature that I'm passionate about, although I doubt a class exists on it, at least not in the English language. Not that my choice of literature is super-obscure, or low brow. I think that it just fails to make the literary canon. It's not Joyce, or Woolf. It's mostly white (which often varies), angry men (which seldom varies). I enjoy the passion with which they write. It is the dangerous passion of colliding stars. I like some female writers, but I find it hard to connect with them. There is something lacking that I need to experience. Maybe I'm poorer for this.
I am about to fall asleep.
I am about to fall asleep.