With Three Weeks Left

Before college, I ran an angsty Myspace blog which less than subtly described my laggard disposition. I like to believe the music I was listening to was the real epicenter of my writing, with a few sophomoric sentences thrown about to mask my boring days. College changed that habit of mine, albeit marginally; I shut down the first blog, started this one up, and appeared here as frequently as an eclipse masks the sun. I blame The Way of Heaven, for what can I possibly give you, reader, but only that which is communicable? I can't write love, I can't write l'oeuvre.

I'm a college senior now, and in spite of the advising and direction and inspiration and... I come back to November: Father's birthday, Thanksgiving, the semester closing darkly. I am again drawn to dualism and weigh my thoughts heavily on consciousness and existentialism. It's all hypersensitivity, really: I can look out in the murk, see Oneonta shining like a power grid, and despite its flaccid streets I am enamored, in love with nothing at all.

Perhaps its the notion of the heart of an arctic crystal, which I wrote about approximately the same time two years ago. My how so little changes; I am enervated again, awakened to the teetering equilibrium of failure.