i hate pressure.

Pressure to read, pressure to write, pressure to play, pressure to look, to seem, to be.

It's all I feel lately.


And you'd think that I would "work best" under this "pressure," but the truth is, I work best spontaneously. It comes from my heart that way.

I want to change.

Two things about this:

You know, I feel like I have never really accomplished anything with much discipline, and thus, nothing really noteworthy. It's apparently a practice, not a natural ability; but even the practice feels to me like the furthest-away, most difficult thing I could ever imagine attaining.

Mom has been saying for years that I lack self-discipline. I do not deny this fact, but lack the personal motivation and, yes, self-discipline to change it.

I feel like I have named my disease, but how to treat it is unknown...the next step...

"But where do we go from here, the words are comin' out all weird..."

Second thing:
I've been trying everyday to figure out what is wrong with me, how I'm going to be happy. And I realized it is just because I have no real talent; talent is be able to do something well, and doing something well usually requires this self-discipline that I lack. (There are always the exceptions, though; but waiting to find out if I am some sort of savant isn't working. I am just not.)

I guess I just have to drag my feet on, pick one foot up after the other until I get somewhere, hopefully far away from this point in my life which is more or less a point in my character. And from what I can gather, that is the only way to change.

It is not easy being poison.

And that is all I have to say right now.

Overflow.

 

I just want to know if things will ever look up from this mess, or if I'm just going to stare into the sky from this mirror forever.

It's been a while...

Since I've blogged. Blawged. Blauged. Yeah, that last spelling was a little bit weird. Anyway.

This semester is panning out to be a good one, at least so far. Twelve hours is pretty easy to manage, after having dropped my Intuitive Calculus class because it was another one of those taught-by-TA/grad student courses that was pretty ridiculous. The teacher was a really condescending person, and had very little teaching ability. He was good at bringing up random but interesting facts in class, though, not that those really counted for much.

My Russian Literature and Culture from 1945 course is incredible. I'm pretty far behind on the reading, as is usual for me in any literature course, but the lectures are simply...remarkable. I would love to upload a clip of my teacher, his accent and all. I become so captivated by his accent and enthusiasm during class, that it is pretty difficult for me to not pay attention. However, I have found my mind following little rabbit trails from the topics we cover. I don't contribute much to class, unfortunately, because I am so far behind on my reading (we usually have 100+ pages per night). But, I am working hard to catch up on what I feel is crucial to the class. We've already read 4 books, 2 course packet short stories, and I've got another course packet assignment before today at 2...oooh, twelve hours from right now.

In other news, everyone is pretty correct in saying that the Spring Semester is a fairly relaxing semester (despite the nearly existential hangups I get about grades and the "battle" against grade inflation here...I could go on for hours about how I simply cannot sign my life over to school work and the goal of attaining the highest possible grades), though I tend to keep myself busy in as many ways as possible, as I am a very self-entertained person. My room has been maintained well, also. I've been sort of just making the best of my dorm and looking ahead,  towards the time next semester when I will be living in an apartment or a small house somewhere on The Hill or in a nearby town, close enough to school to grab a bus, bike, or maybe even walk if the rain, snow, wind, sleet, whatever-crappy-weather-have-you ceases. I long for the summer.

Or at least spring. I've been reminiscing about time living in the country. I remember so vividly how everything would just explode with blossoms, even the grass. The first sign were those bushes completely covered with yellow blossoms in February. Then came the camelias in March, the daffodils and the crab apple trees in mid-late April with flitting butterflies in the branches, the rest of the trees after that, and lilies of various kinds. Then, the fruit trees would blossom, and we would plant lettuces and spinach, broccoli, and cauliflower in our huge dirt patch of a garden, and pick whatever grew first. I remember walking barefoot through the mist to that garden minutes before supper to basically hew away our dinner salad. My feet would be covered in grass and clay, but it just felt so good to smoosh the earth beneath and through my toes. It felt like life back then, so fresh and clear-headed, and more connected to nature than I feel life is now. Nature feels a lot less accessible here and now. What is accessible here and now are books and research resources, and a lot of imported salad greens.

Repulsive...

There are times when I feel trapped. I wish that I would have taken that gap year. I wish that I would have gone to a different school, a less serious school...sometimes. I wish I would have moved away and gotten a job and figured out some things about myself.

Wishes are really just inkling remains of missed opportunities. A door only slightly out of reach at one point in time...

I hate feeling like I've resigned to not even try to reopen those closed doors...not even knock. 'Cause if I tried-- what if the door opened after all?