I am losing my mind... over a humanities paper.
This is ridiculous. I literally, literally cannot get anywhere with it. Every sentence I write falls like a brick... writing should be a flowing, organized activity of release and understanding, not some kind of painfully heavy, awkward excavation in which all I find in my mind is... a wasteland.
Which, coincidentally, is what the paper is about. The Wasteland. T.S. Eliot's glorious mindfuck which leaves me nervous and disoriented and awe-struck. This, as well as Une Semaine de Bonte - a Surrealist work (picture-book of sorts) that somehow manages to leave me even more disoriented. Between all the birdmen and naked women, I. Am. Just. Not. Sure. I think I understand better now, about provocation of the subconscious, and etcetera..
I am to write about these works in the context of collection - how they are collections, fragments, and what that means. I have my thesis, I have (some) ideas, but I don't have any kind of eloquence or grace. Every time I start, I veto whatever I've just typed.
I need to inspire inspiration. Or learn how to get out of this rigid, disgusting formal essay mode. I need it to be crisp, and clear, and sensible. But very little is crisp and clear and sensible. My life is not crisp and clear and sensible. This paper is inspiring an existential crisis.
Just, what I'm wondering is this:
Shouldn't I be excited about this paper? Shouldn't I be thrilled to learn about this and synthesize, to record my thoughts? This was supposed to be the kind of thing I get excited about, but instead I'm in some weird academic paralysis. Can all of the creativity be drained out of you? Is that what too much education does? Is schooling good? Am I in a box? Do I lack the intelligence, or am I suddenly flustered because I'm losing something? ...like passion.
Why are we given a life, and we need to find a way to fit in life?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment