I'd resolved some time ago to write every day. Holding true to this self made promise as a college student hasn't been difficult, it's only been unproductive.
Line by line.
Bit by bit.
I regurgitate words that belong in a dustless place. Active voices screaming from the inside of a white washed fence, perfectly manicured lawn, solitary tulips springing up, equally spaced, four feet apart, in a most ridiculous grid formation.
In two weeks this ends. I feel as though I've already taken a plow to the earth beneath this charade and begun uprooting the raw burial ground of self below. True enough, my return has been hindered by too many sleepless nights of academic nonsense.
Soon, and very soon, the invisible hand forcing me into this state of complacent conformity will lift, and my hair, shining purple in the sunlight and magenta by the moon, will flow freely in the western winds again.
I can already taste the thrill of the chase of those delighted states as they dance playfully across the corners of my mind. Transforming a misery carried in the weight of an overwhelming, undesired dream into the sort of ecstatic intent associated with abundantly living.
Terms that might cause me to shudder if not carefully kept shut within the framework of my westernized reality. Too much fairy dust makes me sneeze, but there's a fair amount of the stuff used every time I decide to fly.