Time with my essays
I almost enjoy nights like this. Long, slow, intimate nights, entered with apprehension and the anxiety that I'll never finish, that when I do finish, I'll have produced shit. But, here I am right in the middle of the silent darkness, finally settled into my keys, and I know that within hours I'll be finished, before I blink, it'll be printed and handed it, for good or ill, that all worries, concerns, perhaps that I should have started days ago, will finally be abetted. It feels nice to be sitting here, literally IN THE MIDDLE of my essay, drinking tea. I know it's awful, I know I should have started yesterday, at least, but this is the only way I can get things done. It almost feels like treadmilling -- checking the word count like I would the time, convincing myself I'm nearly there. And perhaps I am, for all the good it will do. Here I am practically writhing in analogies and descriptive prose, when I should be going on about Derrida or feminists or something important that will up my word count. So, I continue. Approximately 1000 words to go! Did I say this was nice? I meant it was TORTURE.