sleeping to dream
This will be an unorganized clusterfuck of topics all juxtaposed together to create a new post. I haven’t written for myself in some time; everything is an assignment. And yes, I can still get gratification out of assigned writing, but there’s something different and something less free about writing when I know someone is going to be going through, picking it apart, freezing the emotions that lie beneath the surface.
Today, I missed class for Advanced Composition course……..again. Okay, yes, I understand the point of taking a class is to, you know, go to it and what not. However, if I’m getting nearly 100 percent in the course other than attendance based on my actual WORK, then why is it even an option for a professor to consider failing me? Due to excessive absences, she said. Are you kidding me? If I fail a course that I have an A in because I have better things to do than discuss the “shape” of a piece, then school is absurd.
And speaking of absurdities, my Advanced Lit. Analysis class is absurd—in a good way, but also in a strangely isolating way. The theories we study make me question everything I believe in, and in turn, who I am. My entire existence is called into question in my own mind as I leave every Tuesday and Thursday. Strange emotions flood my system and I often find myself unable to function properly. Once, Roman texted me saying “Ugh. Work blows. Blah” and I didn’t know how to respond for roughly two hours. I felt so disconnected from my peers, my friends, and, well, society. It’s a strange feeling, but it makes me feel…enlightened at the same time. I’m not sure what will happen in five weeks when I no longer listen to Professor Gallego, hanging on his every word, but I’m sure it won’t be pleasant, but at least I’ll have enjoyed the class as much as he seemed to enjoy teaching it. It’s all about reciprocation.
Always always reciprocation. I have a friend (yes an actual friend not a cover up for ME, but another person) who was digging on a guy who ended up not digging her the way she was digging him. Perfect example of a lack of reciprocation. That’s what relationships are all about. Nobody wants to feel like their feelings are more expansive or deeper than the other person. Nobody wants to fall in love and then find out the person never loved them. That’s the worst—to know he meant everything to you, and you meant nothing to him. Scratch that. You represent the entirety of shame that his small heart holds. The minuscule taste of remorse on his sharp tongue. Yeah. That’s you. Feels awful eh?
This entire post sucks. It doesn’t really make me feel any less inhibited or stifled, as writing usually does. Hmm. Perhaps sleep will relieve this feeling.
1 year ago • Notes