Writing
I have this inexplicable urge to write poetry.
Right now.
As I sit in the computer lab, earning $9 an hour for being inordinately computer illiterate.
I have finished my homework, outlined my notes, replied to each of those pesky but ultimately urgent emails, and listened to the stratified harmonies of the 15th century isorhytmic motet of the contenance anglaise. That is to say, other than my three consecutive meetings from 8 to 10:30, I am done for the night.
I feel particularly melancholic lately. A near relishing of the poignant state that brinks on depression. A fear of the depths of my emotional possibilities and an unctuous desire to retreat into the spaces of my own mind pervade my every thought and action. I function within the confines of this societal structure and play the part of the lifetime channel movie heroine.
But I can't write poetry. My words spew forth in pretentious and mellifluous phrases. Pompously poetic in the prose I wear the vestige of an erudite and yet never say anything at all.
Right now.
As I sit in the computer lab, earning $9 an hour for being inordinately computer illiterate.
I have finished my homework, outlined my notes, replied to each of those pesky but ultimately urgent emails, and listened to the stratified harmonies of the 15th century isorhytmic motet of the contenance anglaise. That is to say, other than my three consecutive meetings from 8 to 10:30, I am done for the night.
I feel particularly melancholic lately. A near relishing of the poignant state that brinks on depression. A fear of the depths of my emotional possibilities and an unctuous desire to retreat into the spaces of my own mind pervade my every thought and action. I function within the confines of this societal structure and play the part of the lifetime channel movie heroine.
But I can't write poetry. My words spew forth in pretentious and mellifluous phrases. Pompously poetic in the prose I wear the vestige of an erudite and yet never say anything at all.