Summer: If You Can Call It a Break...

Junior year is more excruciating than I ever could have imagined. It has been shaving me down like a used pencil and beating me to a pulp, yet the pace at which I have been running is not close to slowing down in any measure. Even within the past summer, when times of the day and night intermixed and came close to utterly disappearing, my life was more hectic than it had ever previously been. Nights, perhaps too often, reached to hours that men and women would regularly wake to work. While the morning's sun never shone too bright to wake me until the early afternoon. Nevertheless, it was in these late hours that fed all rapturous and sorrowful ideas that flowed constantly out of the curls of my brain. With both paint, words, and thoughts, I crafted more numerously and rapidly than I have been capable of. Opinions and determinations strengthened, and art grew deeper and more surrealistic. Yet, impatience became a constant companion and instead of wasting my precious three months on writing long stories, poetry and song became my savior. I discovered the kings and jesters of literature and simultaneously buried myself deep into the fitful mind and fit my feet into the wandering heels of Arthur Rimbaud. I devoured troubadour songs of Bob Dylan, beatnik poetry such as that of Allen Ginsberg, and the horrific imagery of Edgar Allen Poe. With both the late hours piling leisurely up and with the drunken poetry of these writers I indulged myself in, I felt I was going mad with hallucinatory brilliance. Then, with great misfortune and grief upon my shoulders, did I return to school. I do not, however, criticize the act of going to school, nor do I attempt to diminish the teacher's process of learning. I do, though, fully blame myself for being artistically unable to create under scholarly circumstances. Over the course of the summer I wrote a total of thirty-nine poems that which I am proud of. But, since the start of the school year, I have only been able to complete a single poem and I find myself suffering to write another. When the end of the glorious summer ended, I had a complete knowledge of what was to come (or not to come), nonetheless I achieved no objective to save myself from this gruesome writer's block. Call me fatalistic.