031.
knuckle-white, starch-white, the exact color of the eggshells i find beneath my feet -- it's always the color of the canvases and answer boxes and papers i find before me. i find myself scribbling these thesis statements on menus at work, penning down concepts on napkins. i want to transfer these ideas onto paper through lines and value changes and color, but i just can't put my paintbrush to the paper.
i call in sick to find the time, to locate my misplaced motivation, and all i have to show for it are eyelids which feel like sandpaper. i have seven application essays to write and i hope that whatever string of words i pull together will get me through the door -- but it's this very thought which paralyzes my brain process. my train of thought becomes a train wreck and i'm stuck on the first sentence for more than an hour. i tell my mother that things are coming along great, that i'm almost there, i'm just about done, it'll be any day now and it must be the telephone wires disguising my voice for me because i've never been good at storytelling.
i am clenched teeth and waking up to dull, throbbing headaches which last the majority of my day. the best part: it was just last week i was preaching that one shouldn't muddle everything good with the bad, things work out. i was saying how i wasted too much of last year with that, and look at me now: back to square one. look, even the headaches are back.