So I’m supposed to be writing my Emily Dickinson paper today. I’ve been thumbing through her collected works for a week or two now, and I can say with absolute certainty that I am mystified as to why she is an important poet.
Perhaps it stems from my disdain for poetry as an art form itself, but I find little to relate to in her sparse verses.
I suppose that’s not entirely true. I do like a few of her poems. However, after flipping through page after page trying to find something that jumped at me, all I felt was the need to take a nap.
I feel that way right now.
My mom keeps coming downstairs every ten minutes. I want to lock the door. Not that I’m actually working on my paper though—this is all I can do. I’m so conditioned to journal, it’s reflexive.
I need 5-7 pages of bullshit. Immediately.
UPDATE: 3:32 a.m. and I have written one page. One. Page.
FML.
Categories: Ennui