Truly, what is the state of the world? At the moment, it's filled with liars, boogeymen, conservatives, illegetimate presidents, morticians, and people. It called to say it was feeling rather fine and would like to go for a jog.
I, however, am neither so interesting nor so large. I'm not any happier--yet again I have writer's block. It may be "senioritus," since I have one semester left before finding myself in another country or back home or on the front page of USA Today. There isn't an urge to get anything done: in the past, there was a sense of "this needs to be finished, you should be accomplishing something;" it has been replaced with "that's due and you're doing that at 7 and that at 7:10 and that at 7:15, you should be able to do all three, or at least come by, and who cares what's really happening?"
Worries plagued me briefly about the state of my soul a few months ago; my friends and I saw the play "Wit," an award-winning piece on ovarian cancer. Among the unmoved in the audience was me, and I consider that I may number among the only ones who felt nothing. If my older brother can cry at "The Sixth Sense," then surely I can muster a tear for ovarian cancer.
The fallout of the holidays is still raining down upon me, like shards of the Challenger space shuttle (has it really been fifteen years ago now?). No longer do I approximate my soul dying, or dead; I wonder whether it existed in the first place. Something was injured repeatedly over the years, but was that my ego, my quality of life, my intellect, or my socially constructed view of the way the world was....
That which may save me is music. I'm learning to read and write in the language. Often on my mind: Prokofiev, Nirvana, Mozart, Radiohead, Schubert, Cowboy Mouth, TLC, etc.
Go music. Save me.