Shut your eyes and sing to me.

So call me a masochist or call me weird or something, but I think that some of the best art/music/writing comes out of suffering, and oh, my friends, I am strugglin’.

It’s 1:06 AM. I have been studying all day, copying notes, writing journal entries, going to class, taking tests, and napping. I could be fast asleep, reading, watching TV, but I am choosing to write. Writing is one of the few things I feel an intense, unbreakable love for in my life. Writing is the only thing that makes sense to me. It’s one of the few things that feels natural; to me, writing is as necessary and natural as breathing.

I just got distracted for almost 20 minutes but I suppose that’s what happens when I have a minute to assess my life. My times. I’m going to make no sense and this is going to be marvelous.

It’s hard for a person like me to be a functional member of society. I might seem disorganized, frazzled, and irresponsible–like I have my priorities all wrong. Well, maybe the life that’s expected of me puts priorities in the wrong order. That sounds like I don’t want to take responsibility for my actions, and believe me, I would take responsibility for them if I felt the need to. I’m not one to shrug of my mistakes. Ever. I just don’t think that a practical life is the one that I really feel like I should be living. I don’t take much joy in organizing things, I hate forms, I hate sheets, I hate deadlines, I hate schedules.

It sounds like I don’t like school, but I do like it. I enjoy (some) of my classes very much. I like doing my work sometimes. It’s often stressful, but at the end of it I like having a concrete representation of something I’ve learned. That much structure has been drilled into my head, at least. I, however, find little joy in things that I have no particular interest in. I have a pretty fierce independent streak if I am impassioned about an area of my life. If I don’t care, tell me what to do, I’ll do it.

I guess I’m just restless. I’m learning all of these things–about dopamine cells not occurring in the substantia nigra which terminates in the basal ganglia, that phenylalanine can lead to mental retardation, that Schoenberg liked to use the chromatic scale, but what does it even mean, anyways? I’m always looking for some stupid deeper meaning in my life and, god damn it, I’m 20 years old. It’s not happening any time soon, is it? I’m supposed to be doomed to some shallow developmental existence and I hate it. Then, I get older and I get pissed off that I’m losing my carefree youth. This is just a splendid example of how I don’t know what I want. Ever. Do I want a meaningful life or do I want capricious fun?

It’s so hard to fit into a world where you feel like you don’t belong. I’m not even talking about my school or my friends, because I do feel a nice sense of belonging amongst them. Somehow, I’ve found people who get me. I just feel like my role in society is very much…undetermined. I’m little Anita, barely can remember what I had for breakfast, can’t do addition or subtraction all that well, what good am I? Writing dumb, rambling things is something I’m not particularly good at, but I feel very strongly for it. I feel as though blogging, like this, spewing feelings into a box could make me feel like I have meaning. Of course, it could never be my livelihood. It really is unfortunate that our passion has to be our livelihood–or at least that’s how I see it. I’m very much interested in being a psychologist, given that’s what I’ve been going to college for. I’m just afraid of failure. It’s so real-world. I’m so…detached from the whole actually leading a real life thing. I’m much better suited to sit here and ramble…but if I end up without any money I wouldn’t get wifi, so I couldn’t ramble to anyone but the people in the streets. I’m not sure how well passersby would take to that.

I just want so many things that aren’t practical for me, and oh, how I hate practicality.

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