there are books everywhere. i have completely taken over my sister's desk with my piles of elle, vogue, nylon and legitimate books for the two papers i am currently writing. not at the same time, that would be amazing, but sadly i am no sorcerer.
i don't know why i find writing here before going back to writing my shitty research essay productive. maybe it's like a warm-up. yeah, it's totally like a mental warm-up. i've just been watching fluff so this should get the cranks in my brain working in an attempt to write a coherent essay on the picts in anglo-saxon england in the fourth century. my argument is solid.
a few days ago i was going through poems i wrote when i was in high school. a number of them are shit and quite a few i don't know even know what they are about. my cryptic ways have even puzzled me. some weren't too bad and i thought about writing more but i'm not sure on what. my subject matter is thin and i am not a political writer, not yet anyway, so no eloquent, passionate verses on the inhumane aspects of civilization; unrequited love for now. maybe it is because of a dream a had two nights ago that really shook me up and caused me to go looking for some kind of answer in my poems. i don't think anything but the actual solution will fix this; no roundabout ways for me. years later and this is still happening. some people, who don't even deserve it or care, can still really get to you.
and so i continue to write in here instead of my essay. who cares about how the christianization of the picts was a step in pictish progress vs. christian agendas? nobody but me, apparently.
