Here I am. Another sleepless night, another blank word document, and a mouthful of words that surface to the top with irrelevance to the task at hand.
I wanted to major in English to inspire. To ignite words, and lift the dust covered veils that turn people away from the boring pangs of old literature. However, I've been finding myself caught in the same boring pangs. Twiddling my thumbs, rolling in the fluffy comforter of my bed, staring out the wet window pane, aching to go outside for any given reason to take me away from these wretched books.
Okay, they aren't quite wretched. Christopher brought something to my attention, "You absolutely hate being ordered to do anything you're passionate about. Once you're forced to do it you just want to give up, that's it, and you're done." He couldn't have uttered truer words. What's the point of being passionate if you're forced to be passionate, enthusiastic? Last semester I was so thrilled by the freedom of my classes. I told myself "This is what I've been waiting for, this is the path that I have been waiting to take!" Yet, this path has proven to be much more difficult to trek than I had envisioned.
It could possibly be that I am beginning to doubt my passions, whether or not they can withstand ancient pieces of literature that tend to numb me dry with repetitive boasting. I don't know how to make this enjoyable. Group discussions tend to work against such developing enthusiasm as we normally tend to agree that the material is rather ridiculous and humorous in its dramatization.
Please, someone, enthuse me.
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