I usually procrastinate writing papers (like I'm doing right now) by writing about my feelings or some other bullshit on this blog or taking a walk around BU to try and clear my head.
When I refrain from doing these things, an anxiety builds up in the back of my mind and the paper doesn't get written. Right now, I have a page and a half complete on an eight-page paper that was due this morning. I'll lose some points for sending it in late tomorrow morning, but I'll finish it nevertheless.
But the problem is not the papers. There will always be papers (or whatever the equivalent is in my post-college career). The real problem is that I'm not satisfied with my life choices. There's something unspeakable that burns in my soul and makes me yearn for greater things than what I'm supposed to want. I don't give a shit about your fast cars and beautiful homes. I don't care about getting a job or making money or paying off my student loans. I have no motivation to write this paper. Not because I'm lazy, but because it really doesn't matter what I have to say about Elizabeth Bowen's wartime short stories. Even if these stories are of interest to me, that's all they are: something interesting.
All I want to do is listen to one of my favorite albums and watch the river flow. I want to have deep conversations with whoever will sit and listen and discuss things with me. I want to play guitar--by myself because no one else appreciates it--and sing my fucking heart out. But I sit here and write these stupid papers about other people's stories when I should be creating my own.
Can I get a witness?