I am a self-proclaimed writer. It’s really the only thing I love to do.
Lately, my writing time started to disappear, and in turn my desire has slipped away, too.
This is a recent discovery. I find my days droning on.
The voices of my professors used to bring priceless information I couldn’t wait to obtain.
My hands would be tired from taking notes.
Now I can barely hear muffled voices through my personal cloud of fog.
My free time always was spent reading a new book or writing in one of my journals.
Now, when I reach the essence of free time, I can’t find the remote through all the clutter in my room.
To make it worse, I end up watching Kim Kardashian whine at her mother, or sometimes I find channel 25 and catch Mike Rowe performing some dirty job.
I am left searching for my motivation.
It’s obviously not in my backpack anymore.
Perhaps it’s hiding in the piles of papers and note cards climbing toward my ceiling, although it’s more likely to be found sleeping in the pages of my pile of unread novels next to the demon television.
I keep telling myself it’s time to rise above my sophomore slump.
I’m stuck in the middle of my four years with spring break quickly approaching.
I simply need to get my act together for a couple of weeks, and I’ll be able to spend some short, sweet days in a fictional fantasy.
For my mind, those thoughts should be enough to do it.
For my heart, it’s not. I have dreams.
I have always wanted to write my own novel.
I want to sit secluded somewhere far from here and write.
I don’t even know what exactly, but that doesn’t matter. The words would come.
I know there is so much out there for me to see.
The world offers an endless canvas on which to paint glorious sentences with sound, which flows like a river.
But, here I am.
No matter how hard I close my eyes, I’m still here when I open them.
I know I can leave. <br/>I will. I will. <br/>It's just a matter of time, and that one little detail is the most depressing of all. Time.It's just a matter of time, and that one little detail is the most depressing of all. Time.
I will.
It’s just a matter of time, and that one little detail is the most depressing of all. Time.
I’m only 20 years old, but I feel like my days are flying by so quickly.
Soon I’ll be 30 and some small, look-alike will be calling me mom.
Writing is my anti-lock brakes. As soon as the pencil scratches a clean, white sheet, time halts.
I get to take a moment in time and cement it on a page.
My problem is a lack of time to get it all down.
There are so many moments waiting in line behind my homework, my job, my sleep, it’s inevitable some will get tired of waiting and leave.
My top priority has always been good grades leading to a good job with writing getting squeezed in- between.
Within the past few weeks, my thinking is making a 180.
Somewhere along the way, writing a novel knocked out homework with an uppercut to the jaw.
Unfortunately, I am paying too much money and have invested too much time for the victory to be enough to change my ways.
If I know myself at all, I’ll stay here for two more years. Get my degree. Get a job.
Then tucked in-between life, I’ll find time to write a few pages in a journal, or maybe I’ll write one novel instead of the 20 I have playing in my mind right now.