This is an old post.
Sitting around the dining table with the clock nearing noon, TheYP is struggling to figure out each of our individual duties, predicaments, and TBDs. Temitope is trying to find an online class to register for focusing on his degree in creative writing and poetry. Matt is just attempting to edit our copious amounts of film from yesterday’s bike/trek to Ossining. Arlinda is possessive of as much sangfroid as ever, and even if she were under distress I don’t think it would be big deal. She deals with things. Mostly right now I’m thinking she’s corresponding with a close friend/family.
Now for me, I’m clicking through the inordinate cluster of tabs I’ve accumulated over the past weeks on this defunct laptop-hoping to find a way to organize my priorities and enrich my achievements while grappling with the bull of purpose that’s charging at me nonstop. If you could, endure another terrible analogy. Indecision’s vaporous tentacles are nipping at my heels like a stealthy death that won’t let me walk freely. Another hour has passed. More achievements pop up- like a kid asked what he wants to do and revels in the “excellence fully-formed” (Grit, Duckworth). Mundanity is…mundane. There isn’t much description needed to articulate why I’m sick after the first flirtation with a new subject. Remember when you abandoned drawing because you reasoned you would never be good enough? And that time you practiced Fur Elise just as a tease into a stereotype you partly wanted to reap the benefits of? Even now, typing, the sound of typing, sees you as a wishful erudite.
Step One to collecting your pretension and throwing it off a flaming cliffside:
Stop quoting authors you’ve only partially read. <–at the same time I should feel free to express my interest in an author’s thoughts. Let’s revoke that step.
The largest decision seems to be whether I want to go to Hofstra or not b/c that decision lies solely on my hands. On my heart. Sartre, decisions carry too much weight. I don’t want to be atlas