It’s early night-time and I am going to make this quick.
My absence from my blog is frustrating, I am angry with myself for it, however I found myself bombarded with numerous pieces of work over the mock exam or prelim period and was rarely able to take a breath. Writing is not always an escape for me, I like things to be perfect and to submit a piece of writing that was not deemed good enough in my dreary states would pain me further.
It is a gentle time of night, not so late that your eyes burn and your head swims, and nobody is loud. Distant hums of voices and music project from TV sets in the other side of the house, the computer keys tap rhythmically in front of me. I am surrounded by books and worksheets, all muttering of philosophical principles and dilemmas. Fallacies and Philosophers. I am meant to be reading them but my guilt over abandoning my neglected blog lit my procrastination alight. If you’re reading this, it’s too late.
Fairly lights adorn nearly every inch of my room, and the glow they omit coats every surface and creates dancing shadows and shapes. The glare of my screen blinds. There are sprawling, thin lines of fallen strands of hair laying upon the philosophical sheets, my hair loss has hardly slowed down ever since it began. It only serves as a reminder of my stress and esteem. As I write I feel out of sorts, I am aware that what I am writing is hardly up to my usual standard. My writing feels alien and dulled slightly, the continuous onslaught of work proves to be more detrimental than I previously thought.
Tomorrow I have to do things I do not want to do. My urgent fear of confrontation is being forced aside and I feel exceedingly uncomfortable and I am usually always uncomfortable. I have to confront the most constant source of anxiety throughout the majority of my life and it sickens me, for something to unknowingly hold such a large control over me is unbearable and I loathe myself for being so weak. I do sound dramatic, I know, and if I were to explain this anxiety it would only be laughable. But social anxiety and general anxiety comes in often laughable forms, things that sound completely and utterly ridiculous to the capable. Something that can be so big and dictatorial in one mind can appear minute and meaningless in another.
I am going to write, and write and write and write a bit more. This is what I want to do in my life, this is my livelihood and it is being drained ever so slowly by the all-consuming drudgery of everyday school life. I want to preserve this passion in a bottle and weep, for I know it will not be here when I wake up tomorrow. I am going to write, and I am going to read and I am going to enjoy things. I have tired of the bad outweighing the good and I am tired of not voicing my opinions and allowing myself to be guided by a system that barely cares about the unnoticeable individual.
In this gentle night, I want to read stories and poetry, to absorb all the knowledge possible within my throes of passion before it leaves. I want the night to freeze, the clocks to stop, the passion to solidify. I need to see it before me, in a soft tangible form glowing against shadowed light. To stay this age, this person, this being; for more than a fleeting early night-time moment is all I desire. I want more, deep down I know I deserve it.