posting everyday this break. That obviously didn't work out. My streak of productivity lasted a grand total of two days. It was going quite strong until it was met with the daunting prospects of doing chemistry. I just spent like five seconds trying to figure out if you spelled "met" like "meat" or "met." My brain on break is not doing ok.
I don't have the patience for paintings. I'm not a bad artist, but I don't have the patience to actually sit/stand there and make something--especially something creative. I'm a copier, at best.
Ramblings. None of this probably makes any sense. I can't think.
The problem is that I don't actually care all that much about doing, well, anything. There is nothing that I feel a drive for. Not even writing. There are things that I appreciate and there are things that I enjoy, but, at the end of the day, I don't appreciate or enjoy them enough to spontaneously do them. I don't have any passions--not any lasting passions, anyway. I'd really rather just sit or sleep. So I just pursue things that people tell me I'm good at doing.
And that, my friends, is the cold, naked truth.
Unless I'm PMSing. Then I care about everything.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-William Butler Yeats
you know that line from high fidelity when he says that he just has good taste and can't actually produce anything, that he's just a really good critic? yeah, that's me.
ReplyDeletePuhleeeeease. You are like the most creative person I know. And no, I don't know that line, but I'll go with it.
ReplyDelete