I was quite pleased earlier. Five of my poems were published in the College's annual literary magazine, Art & Scope. "Moppit", "To My Brother", "Cage", "A Frozen Pantoum", and "Sitting Alone in a Philadephia Milk Bar" were all published. I'm very surprised about the last one actually because. no joke. I wrote it in less than two minutes. It was an assignment for class to have a poem due that day and I had forgotten all about it up until the last few minutes. But I suppose none of my poems have taken long to put out. I get the whole gross mess out on Word and then I edit it later. Usually my edits aren't quite as ground-breaking as the original rant was. It's like a seizure, or a lightning strike from God. Though, I suppose he wouldn't have me writing a lot of what I've written.

I have a long way to go. But, you know, whenever you see a journey in a movie, most of it is about the process of getting to the end, and the end is just the cherry on top of the sundae and doesn't matter quite as much as the rest of it. Why am I racing for the end? It seems rather morbid. What? Am I just trying to get life over so I can die? I don't think so. But it's easy to get caught up in the discomfort of life and want to push it forward.

Why do I do so many things I despise? Because I'm supposed to? I definitely don't HAVE to. I don't HAVE to do anything. I'm tired of acting without thinking. It's like my quest to stop apologizing for things I'm not actually sorry for (I've done quite well ). Except I want to branch out even further from that. Like don't say yes to things I don't want to do. Or say yes to things I am nervous about doing. Like, ask myself WHY I am saying yes or no, and then pick the most gutsy. I'm trying really hard to make my life worthwhile.

But that is probably the problem.

And on an off note I like this final life by Emily Dickinson from poem #1732.
"Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell."

True that.