Hesitation.

I know repeat this often, but please spare me your criticism: I do a poor job of keeping this blog up-to-date.

I mean, I wrote a fairly lengthy piece about my Ebertfest experience, but only got as far as putting it in the "Draft" folder before going to bed and vowing to edit it in the morning. Obviously, I have not made much progress in editing it, as it still has not made its way out of the Draft folder and onto my homepage. I am often torn when it comes to blog posts, as I feel that while I generally have something to say, I would rather do my ideas justice than have them be deposited in vulgarized form on this blog. Thus, I have many Word Doc files with half-typed papers on all sorts of things, but a blog containing nothing. (I am re-writing a novel forheavensake). I'm not someone who advocates half-baked theologies or poorly-penned philosophies-- if you want to write a treatise, then do so, but please don't post it on Blogger or Wordpress. When I see your spelling mistakes and errors in syntax, it degrades whatever you are trying to say (which, many times, cannot be adequately said in something you are by nature trying to condense into blog form anyway). I find it only fair that, if I criticize others for doing these things, then I shouldn't do them myself.  So, what should I do? My life is often too boring to simply offer updates, which is why I also neglect my Twitter account. If anyone reads this and would like to offer some suggestions, I would be more than happy to consider them.

Until then.

Vita mihi mortuus est.

I'm in a bit of a caffeine haze, so this post may not represent my writing at its most eloquent; however, I have a few spare minutes, and thought that an update was in order. I just got out of yet another advising meeting (met w/ Prof. Layton of the Religion Dept. last week about my Medieval Studies stuff) where I discovered just how much I will have to cram into the next two years in order to graduate well. And by "graduate well," I mean "graduate with honors." In addition to studying abroad (which may or may not set me back credit-wise), I will have to take three honors seminars on top of an Independent Study in which I will write my senior honors thesis. To avoid having to take all three honors seminars Fall of my senior year, I must find a way to make one fit into next semester's already tight schedule. This has proven difficult.

I've also been trying to dedicate myself to my writing--establishing goals, that sort of thing-- which has seen only nominal success. I must dedicate myself to strive once again for near perfection. Last post, I mentioned how I felt run down, depleted. In my last line, I wrote that I desperately needed something to "wake me up." Perhaps this upcoming year will act as the catalyst to fuel my faltering life. If nothing else, it will force me to get my head back in the game, to cull my true priorities from the empty obligations, and to pursue once more the goals I have set for myself.

Ad infinitum.

This seems like something I would have posted six years ago, back when I routinely deposited my emotional vomit in my Xanga page. (That's my way of apologizing for whatever is about to spill out onto this entry.) But here I am, midway through my 20th year of living on this earth, and I am no less restless than I was when I was a quiet 10 year old, or a 14 year old with dreams too big for reality, or a 16 year old who was still afraid of kissing girls because he had been fat once, and we all know what that can do to you-- unlike times before, where I felt that my restlessness could propel me somewhere, I now feel a terrific weight of apathy suffocate my will to fight. Back in the days of Xanga, I would go on and on about how I felt depressed about things or worried about things or beleaguered by nothing at all, but at the end of each post I would end with some terrifically sentimental statement about how, despite my recent setbacks, I would triumph against that faceless foe I deemed life (or adolescence, etc.) and move closer to some nebulous concept I called "destiny." And while my hormones have stopped raging around like they once did,  I still find myself on nights like this one with a feeling of restlessness so deep I almost think it will consume me and compress my being into utter annihilation. (Dramatic, huh?) But I do not seek melodrama. The thing that troubles me is not my moodiness, but rather my lack of it. I appear completely nonplussed at this bouts of frustration; where they once yielded great bursts of creativity, they now putter out like a weak flame placed in a rainstorm. They once produced pages of a novel, now they don't even so much as whisper to world. What's worst about all this is that I ache for creative output. But because of my odd suppressed self, nothing comes out when I sit down to write. Nothing happens when I stop and try to think. There was a glorious time where I could lose myself in my own thoughts, and before I knew it I would be so deep in my dreams that I could hardly get out. Though I know it produced some real rubbish (like my Xanga entries, for instance), it also brought me simple pleasures and profound progress. I don't want numbness to become my new pattern from which to hew a life.

I need something to wake me up.

Where does the time go?

I must admit, I do not keep up this blog as attentively as I should; however, that is not to say I haven't had good intentions. Hundreds of times a day I think to myself "I should post that thought on my blog!" but then none of those thoughts ever make it that far. Instead, they usually fall back into the recesses of my mind, and then are lost. Oops. I promise I'll get back into updating this. Perhaps I'll even have something interesting to say.

I cannot help but feel that this year has rushed past me. What had begun last summer as a considerable mound of hopes and expectations has now dissolved into something else. I thought that I would be starting a new life here; instead, I was simply leaving a former one. I thought I would encounter a time of unparalleled personal progress, but instead met a season of intense personal difficulty. What I had constructed for this academic year is difficult to articulate-- I had in mind a soul-saving experience that would alter the course of things for the better. I imagined a richer life, a time to recharge and revive. And, though in a roundabout way, I suppose that is what I got. I'll certainly never be the same for what this year has done to me, and I'll even venture to say that I'm better for it. However, I did not expect that 'wiping the slate clean' hurt so much.

I must have grabbed sandpaper by mistake.

Yet I've enjoyed it. Though it hasn't always been pleasant, this year has still been rather good. My desire is to live these next few weeks to their fullest and enter the summer with something I haven't experienced in years: a fresh spirit. Here's to the morning, warmer weather, and good coffee. Here's to--