So I wrote this last september at some point. And it very much applies now. Except that I’m supposed to be writing about something feminism in latin america…and I’m not sitting on the floor because there is a carpet dearth at the moment.
“I’m sitting here on the floor in my room surrounded by my books, my clothes, my shoes, my furniture and all my things. I should be writing. I should be writing in Spanish about that literature I read weeks ago. I should be analyzing and being profound. But I always find it hard to understand how literature would be profound. I suppose you have to read it like you’d read the Bible. Apply it to your life so to speak. haha. right. not gonna happen.
Instead of writing my paper in Spanish. I’m sitting surrounded by mine. Daydreaming of a time when life will be easier and everything that I want will come more readily. I’m guessing that is a time solely based in dreams, even though everyone dreams that dream. I should be writing. Yet here I sit. Writing on about my life, about things I want to think about, expound upon.
My teachers will have to believe me when I say I can be eloquent when I want to be. They’ll have to believe that I do work hard and try. They’ll have to believe that sometimes life is more important than school and homework.
I try to be profound at times after I read writing that inspires me. But the profound way of speech and lovely scenes to be described flee at a blink of an eye.
I sit here thinking of running miles without stopping. I’m the fastest here.
I sit here thinking of writing epic tales about life and things. I have the talent here.
In my own little world, I dream and the homework does itself.
And here I am.
When I should be