I Want (Ich Habe Keine Lust)
Aug. 31st, 2010 09:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jheti
I'm so tired.
I am a lark, a morning person to the bone, through and through and through.
I have never been happier, healthier, or more fulfilled creatively than when I went to bed at eight every night and woke up at four every morning. That is my natural, native, base circadian rhythm. That is where I belong.
Both of my parents--you know, the people in the house with real jobs who are also my housemates?--are night owls.
I'm going to night classes, because everyone else in grad school also has real jobs, so all the classes are AT NIGHT, no exceptions. I either take night classes or I just don't go.
All of my friends are night owls, except this girl I know in Hawaii. Who is the only lark. Who can get away with it because she's six hours behind me. She gets to go to bed at nine at night if she wants and goes to work at four.
And I am so jealous that sometimes I catch myself gritting my teeth.
Trying to live in the adult world? Is hurting me. It's having physical consequences on my hair and nails. I'm also falling over a lot more than I ever used to. Yesterday I almost fell down the stairs at school.
But this isn't what I wanted to rant about, no, I'm not done.
I've had a solid artistic block for the last six years. It started in grief and continues in exhaustion. It thawed, a little, for the new Trek movie, for monsters in upswept ears and long black coats who knew the taste of ashes and wrote the names of their kin in their flesh.
I do not believe that you and I are acquainted.
No, we're not. Not yet.
But the truth is, the truth is, the truth is, ah, la, fa ti do, ah, so. So.
I haven't made anything in years. Poems, sketches, love stories, jokes.
Worse. I can't even remember what wanting to make something feels like.
This wouldn't be half as frustrating, mind, if I didn't have friends who made things, who were arty, crafty people with schedules even crazier than mine who are successful and happy and actually get to make time in their schedules to go to art classes/artist places/story circles and things.
My mother is a very crafty person, and right now is trapped at work, but when she's at home, she makes things.
It's. Driving. Me. Slowly. Insane. With. Jealousy.
I WANT THAT FOR MYSELF. I DON'T HAVE IT. AND I DON'T SEE HOW I'M EVER GOING TO HAVE IT AGAIN.
I hurt.
What, no, this was supposed to be a bullshit post about my admittedly exciting social successes.
Oh well.
I am a lark, a morning person to the bone, through and through and through.
I have never been happier, healthier, or more fulfilled creatively than when I went to bed at eight every night and woke up at four every morning. That is my natural, native, base circadian rhythm. That is where I belong.
Both of my parents--you know, the people in the house with real jobs who are also my housemates?--are night owls.
I'm going to night classes, because everyone else in grad school also has real jobs, so all the classes are AT NIGHT, no exceptions. I either take night classes or I just don't go.
All of my friends are night owls, except this girl I know in Hawaii. Who is the only lark. Who can get away with it because she's six hours behind me. She gets to go to bed at nine at night if she wants and goes to work at four.
And I am so jealous that sometimes I catch myself gritting my teeth.
Trying to live in the adult world? Is hurting me. It's having physical consequences on my hair and nails. I'm also falling over a lot more than I ever used to. Yesterday I almost fell down the stairs at school.
But this isn't what I wanted to rant about, no, I'm not done.
I've had a solid artistic block for the last six years. It started in grief and continues in exhaustion. It thawed, a little, for the new Trek movie, for monsters in upswept ears and long black coats who knew the taste of ashes and wrote the names of their kin in their flesh.
I do not believe that you and I are acquainted.
No, we're not. Not yet.
But the truth is, the truth is, the truth is, ah, la, fa ti do, ah, so. So.
I haven't made anything in years. Poems, sketches, love stories, jokes.
Worse. I can't even remember what wanting to make something feels like.
This wouldn't be half as frustrating, mind, if I didn't have friends who made things, who were arty, crafty people with schedules even crazier than mine who are successful and happy and actually get to make time in their schedules to go to art classes/artist places/story circles and things.
My mother is a very crafty person, and right now is trapped at work, but when she's at home, she makes things.
It's. Driving. Me. Slowly. Insane. With. Jealousy.
I WANT THAT FOR MYSELF. I DON'T HAVE IT. AND I DON'T SEE HOW I'M EVER GOING TO HAVE IT AGAIN.
I hurt.
What, no, this was supposed to be a bullshit post about my admittedly exciting social successes.
Oh well.
