But I really don't even know why I write here. I realize with a sense of dread that the Internet can hardly preserve my thoughts/words/feelings. Paper is the surest thing for that - paper makes it real doesn't it? Here, it doesn't really exist - unless read by someone else, of course - but paper doesn't need to be read because at least it's there, in the physical realm. What am I saying? Am I dreading my insignificance? But I wont write on paper because I'm here now and here is easier...more convenient. Plus I type better than I write...(yes I am a part of that generation). And on I go...
I was thinking of applying for the creative writing course at my school, but the admission process requires me to risk a 5th course that I need to graduate. As much as I like the idea, I do not want to come back for a summer term just because I didn't get accepted into the class. So that's that. I guess it's up to me to develop my skills...which, I haven't even been. As can be clearly seen I haven't even been doing my random poems.
15 mins until I sign up for my courses -breath- it always makes me nervous because I guarantee that EVERY time there's going to be a OH SHIT moment where doom seems to hang over me. And since this is my last year if it screws up in any way anything can be jeopardized...
Dammit I can't spell. How can an English Specialist NOT spell? I'm going to be owned in grad school if they care that much about spelling cause seriously...
What am I?
Am I the word,
The voice,
Or the body?
Is what I write me,
Or what I read?
Or is it what's inside,
Where no one can see?
Who am I,
But the things I say,
But the art I make?
And what is art
But an expression
Of me and mine?
This sucks.....what's happening to me.
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