Alright.
It's 7:31 pm on a night that I usually would turn in at around 9.
And I am just about to start work on a shitty four page paper that is due tomorrow morning.
I have been so worked up over it. It's a big part of my grade I suppose. But I don't think that's it.
I think my depression has kept me in a dull and lifeless state. I can't deal with my thoughts, so I have tuned everything out.
The depression is making me want to to drop out of school and just drink my life away somewhere. Maybe in the country.
I think I'll regret that though.
So now, I am starting to write this paper.
I'll be up all night writing it.
My best hope now is to pretend that I am actually a writer. One that normally stays up all night writing beautiful words.
I will pretend tonight that I am writing beautiful words.
That I am somehow uncracking the code; that I am revealing facts about the civil rights movement that have been lost to the ages.
This isn't some pat essay question about the efficacy of non-violent protests during the period between 1945 to 1955. No! This is an unanswerable question that I have found the answer to!
I am Bukowski drunk on couch.
I am Thompson nearing the edge.
I am Hemingway in a cafe in Paris.
I am me, in a studio apartment, the mournful sounds of Miles Davis escaping from my laptop. I used to be a beautiful writer. I can be again.
Tonight is the night where it begins.
7:30 p.m. - 2014-10-13
Recent entries:
Lonely - 2014-11-07
I am a loser, baby. - 2014-11-06
Awake in My Tiny Cage - 2014-11-03
God. - 2014-10-27
I remember me. - 2014-10-17
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