Gah, my life right now is just like that bathroom stall - out of order. I'm sick, confused, and I feel like for all the time I've been at college I've achieved nothing (except wright a scathing essay on George Washington and become obsessed with the scandals of Andrew Jackson - woot history!). I feel like my life's out of control, like a puppet on strings being forced to dance around to the master's delight. I'm not sure how I ended up here, but I believe it has something to do with my mother's dreams for me and a lot of money being thrown at me. Just goes to show: money is the root of all evil.
There's a literary magazine on campus which my friend wants me to turn some of my work into, but I'm not so sure about it. I don't like people I know being able to read and critique my work. If some stranger says they don't like one (or all) of my creative endeavors, then that's fine, it doesn't bug me. But if someone I know and love doesn't approve, well I don't know how I'd take that. Maybe I'll try submitting anonomously...
okay, so poetry time! exciting, no? This is something I wrote instead of an essay I couldn't focus on.
I'm not writing an essay right now
like I should be.
Been working for hours,
not a single word done.
I've lost all motivation,
especially on a topic I hate.
Question my beliefs
and tear my faith to shreads.
More like an attack than discourse.
Still I stand strong
and endure.
And yet, my paper lays
a dream in whisps of future words.
Words unwritten tell the best tales
of stories yet to come.
The words I need are dull
like rusted old pennies;
non--existent,
decrepit.
Still I write and no essay comes.
Oh well.
I will write eventually.
But I'm not going to class tomorrow
anyway.
I'll just slip it under her door before I leave.
okay, and here's some more musings that have nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with mythology!
I press my face against the cold stone
That separates me from my love.
My love,
my life,
I live for him
and yet the days seem long since I've
seen his face,
felt his warmth,
and danced in the mulberries.
Thisbe by John William Waterhouse 1909
He sings me sweet melodies
and whispers soft rhymes
of love and freedom soon to be
from our intolerable confines.
His eyes,
like oak and deep as Neptune's sea;
alight my soul and fly to thee.
Loving words for loving ears
to reach thee sweet o'er all the years.
Enought for now.
'till later.
I certainly understand an anxiety about sharing your work with others, but really, you don't have anything to worry about. You're very talented, and even though not everybody is bound to think so, you should be proud enough of your own accomplishments to not have that mean so much.
ReplyDeleteSubmitting your work to your school's Literary Magazine is a good idea. If you're too anxious to do them under your real name, then use a pseudonym. That's what I've done in the past.