Before you begin reading this blog, please note that I am sorry for the exceptionally stupid looking array of pictures, I just really didn't want to leave you guys hanging in the visual department again. I'm lacking in the camera department right now (shout out to julia, the digital from eighth grade is finally dying) but I swear to god once I get one I'll be more artsy, or at least I won't look like an idiot. :)
I waited to caffeinate until like 3:30 in the afternoon today? I feel like how I'm feeling is the intersection between being anxious and being asleep. Def weird.
I got up this morning and skipped class to register for classes, which sucked. Yay for being a freshman! All of my classes start at eight or nine in the morning. Not like I'm a night owl or anything, it's cool. I slept a lot, too. After registering and before the event I covered, I mean.
This is the first time I have ever been a little anxious to leave the newsroom early. I would gladly spend all of every day in this basement, but I made plans for tonight that have me a little more worked up than I usually am, which is saying something because I'm kind of a worked up person.
You know what's weird?
Being in this basement is what I want to do for the rest of my life, right? I mean, figuratively. I don't actually want to be in this particular basement, that would be a weird life goal. But being in a newsroom I mean, reporting, being a journalist. But here's the thing,
have you ever been to an art museum and wanted desperately to be an artist, but only for an hour, or in a courthouse and wanted more than anything else in the world to be a lawyer? Walking by a violinist or a doctor can make me change my dream for twenty minutes. Of course, when I lay down at night to sleep, my conclusion is always the same- it doesn't matter what I want. I am a writer, it's all I know how to be. Words come to me before anything else in the world. But it's a strange emotion, wondering what life would be like if I had been born a different person, picturing it and feeling it and tasting it and then forgetting it. I never know quite what that should mean to me. In some ways I guess that's what writing is- allowing yourself to live vicariously through characters who can be whatever you want, or in the case of journalism, finding out whatever you can about other lives and reporting about them to the public. Writing lets you taste and try on different professions. The catch, I guess, is that no matter how much you love them, you inevitably must always put them back in order to maintain the pen in your hand. The only part of my life that's ever stayed constant is for me is the pen.
Yesterday a girl told me that I looked calm and she didn't want to strangle me as much as she usually does for being so ridiculously happy. I haven't written lately, or at least I haven't written as much as I would like. My poetry class went to an art museum to write ekphrastic poetry, and if I can find a decent picture of the painting I wrote about then I'll post the poem. I don't know what it was about the painting but I couldn't really stop looking at it.
ps. I'm taking another poetry class next semester. It was entirely unplanned. Hahh.
You know what I want? Money to spend on more books.
I probably love you more than you think I do,