Bipolar? Maybe. But that's just life.
My last post was a little ridiculous. I should remember not to post when in extreme distress or extreme elation. Those posts just get a little mundane and I'm sure that there is someone out there who just wants to ring my neck, or give me a great big hug. Anyway, I think I'll reserve my posts for times when a) I am inspired (which oddly enough seem to be in distress or elation) and b) I am conscious and acute enough to do so.
That being said, I woke up this morning to the nice, quiet rhythm of rain outside my window. It was 6 am, my alarm had not gone off yet, but I was well rested from falling asleep too early while attempting to do my homework. I had a post due at 7 am this morning but because of the activities of the weekend and having to work as well, I was unable to stay awake long enough to read the assigned material, drive to Bryan before 3 am and do my shit. So I simply went to sleep, dreaming of her.
When I gently awoke from my slumber unaided by the screeching of an alarm or the shrill of a garbage truck, I decided to prolong my prevailing preoccupation with the mysteries of her brown eyes and stayed in bed for another hour, avoiding reality. No sooner had I stepped foot on the cold, wooden floor did my stomach sink, my eyebrows lowered and my face tensed as is common when in deep contemplation or fret. Water covered the dresser underneath my open window, the second in a set of furniture to be ruined by God's nourishment to the Earth. I thought that this must be a test to my willingness to supersede the utility of possessions and their intrinsic need to be perfect. Then I thought,"No, stupid, just close the fucking window. Don't try to be deep. It's 7am." My roommate's bed too was soaked from head to foot, the water having percolated from window through every thread of linen. I should mention she's not here and I was the one who opened the damn window.
I moved into the dining room and sat insipidly in front of the same task that I had abandoned hours earlier. I knew the assignment would be late, if it was ever to be completed, but no force within myself could come to terms with that fact. I felt like a failure, inept and stupid. The words were of a foreign tongue but not so foreign that I could not understand them. But their meanings evaded me. I read slowly, an irksome and tedious task. My mind evaded the issue and pleaded to return to a different tongue and a different time. Intermittantly, I would try to distract myself with other tasks, hoping to return with a renewed sense of purpose and desperation, to no avail. Many times I knelt in the middle of the floor as if pleading to God, but only to myself, that somehow I would find the determination and the drive. In the end, I mounted my bike in the drizzle, cabizbajo, smiling only when a certain whim of fantasy gave way to the weight of intellectual demise.
I move between two worlds, never finding terra firma on which to establish myself. I look to make a complete person out of the two folds of reality that compose my being. Before I step into that classroom, before I take a role as a social mover and shaker, before I become a lover, I feel I need to be able to negotiate and understand my own reality. The anxiety of failure sits like a puddle of fresh rainwater on a newly polished wooden chair.
What is courage and where can I find it?
That being said, I woke up this morning to the nice, quiet rhythm of rain outside my window. It was 6 am, my alarm had not gone off yet, but I was well rested from falling asleep too early while attempting to do my homework. I had a post due at 7 am this morning but because of the activities of the weekend and having to work as well, I was unable to stay awake long enough to read the assigned material, drive to Bryan before 3 am and do my shit. So I simply went to sleep, dreaming of her.
When I gently awoke from my slumber unaided by the screeching of an alarm or the shrill of a garbage truck, I decided to prolong my prevailing preoccupation with the mysteries of her brown eyes and stayed in bed for another hour, avoiding reality. No sooner had I stepped foot on the cold, wooden floor did my stomach sink, my eyebrows lowered and my face tensed as is common when in deep contemplation or fret. Water covered the dresser underneath my open window, the second in a set of furniture to be ruined by God's nourishment to the Earth. I thought that this must be a test to my willingness to supersede the utility of possessions and their intrinsic need to be perfect. Then I thought,"No, stupid, just close the fucking window. Don't try to be deep. It's 7am." My roommate's bed too was soaked from head to foot, the water having percolated from window through every thread of linen. I should mention she's not here and I was the one who opened the damn window.
I moved into the dining room and sat insipidly in front of the same task that I had abandoned hours earlier. I knew the assignment would be late, if it was ever to be completed, but no force within myself could come to terms with that fact. I felt like a failure, inept and stupid. The words were of a foreign tongue but not so foreign that I could not understand them. But their meanings evaded me. I read slowly, an irksome and tedious task. My mind evaded the issue and pleaded to return to a different tongue and a different time. Intermittantly, I would try to distract myself with other tasks, hoping to return with a renewed sense of purpose and desperation, to no avail. Many times I knelt in the middle of the floor as if pleading to God, but only to myself, that somehow I would find the determination and the drive. In the end, I mounted my bike in the drizzle, cabizbajo, smiling only when a certain whim of fantasy gave way to the weight of intellectual demise.
I move between two worlds, never finding terra firma on which to establish myself. I look to make a complete person out of the two folds of reality that compose my being. Before I step into that classroom, before I take a role as a social mover and shaker, before I become a lover, I feel I need to be able to negotiate and understand my own reality. The anxiety of failure sits like a puddle of fresh rainwater on a newly polished wooden chair.
What is courage and where can I find it?