Fragments from 11:29 on March 17th, 2018

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It’s 11:29 pm and I wish I could be sleeping right now. My eyes are tired and probably bloodshot, yet my mind is keeping me awake, pondering about tomorrow’s workload, the long list of tasks that need to be done, and if I’ll be able to meet up with a new friend this Tuesday. My room is completely dark except for the glow coming from my computer screen. My white bed sheets reflecting the light, making it luminous.
 I’m here, I’m up, whether I want to be or not. I’m going to write.

  I’ve read that when people — artist particularly  — are up this late, not able to sleep, they end up creating beautiful pieces of art or writing. It’s when they work best. In the quietness, while everyone else is resting. The night stars make a great companion when getting all your ideas out onto paper or canvas. I wish I could do that. That’s kind of what I’m longing to create right now, as my brain foils and tumbles, all I wish to do is create something of worth, something of importance, a piece that will mean something to someone out there somewhere. A lot of some’s.

I wish creating was as easy as some people describe it to be. The elegant, romantic, un-agonizing way of making a masterpiece. I wish it was that easy. I wish I wish, I wish. But it’s not. It’s hard and toiling and lonesome. It’s excruciating at some points. Where your just fighting with yourself just to write, just to get something out on the page. It’s not as easy as some people think or make it out to be. Art is a glorious, wonderful thing that you birth out of long hours and late nights and still, quiet, lonesome bedsides. It’s not something that just happens on a whim, very rarely is it that, it’s worked connately with, you mold it and shape it like a potter does when he’s making a pot. You have to work with your hands and put int a lot of hours. Time, patience, and pain create the most beautiful art out there in existence. I’m just lucky enough to be able to create.

I think I’ve learned why an English major has to have four semesters of a foreign language as a part of their schooling. When you learn a language that is not your own and that you did not learn at a young age, you really have to submerge yourself in it; become one with it. You have to dive deep into the dialect and words and sounds that are not your own, that is foreign to you and try to understand and learn them. That language, for someone else, is a way of speaking and communicating. It’s a part of their daily lives that, without it, they couldn’t get along. Writing is an art of language and communication, and there are different languages to that art. It only makes sense to learn and diciest another language other than your own because in by doing that, you not only get more depth about the art of language, but you understand your own native language better. You’re able to take apart and see how each salable, each noun, each letter comes together to make something so powerful it’s able to rip someone’s heart in two.
Language is a powerful thing, and when we take the step to sink into one more than our own native language, we’re able to understand the depths of it on a deeper level. I think that might be, at least one some reason, why English majors have to take 4 semesters worth of a foreign language. For me, that is French. And so far, I love it deeply.

Never so much in my life have I realized this strongly that I want to be a writer.
    Throughout elementary school and middle school, I wrote in journals constantly. Writing entries, newspaper articles, stories, and poems. I loved it. It was a way of freedom and processing. I never thought, at least at that age that I’d turn it into something I’d do for the rest of my life.
  Once I got into high school I kind of tossed the idea of being a writer out the window because I didn’t think it fit me. I thought I’d outgrown it. I threw around the idea of being a singer/songwriter, then a painter, then a designer, and then a photographer. I thought those fit me better until I slowly started to outgrown one idea and into another, all the while I’d always unconsciously go back to writing.
When I was trying to pick a major for college, I couldn’t decide. I went my whole first year not quite knowing what I wanted to major in. It wasn’t until a year ago that I decided to major in English. It feels good to have that decision done, and it feels good because I know it’s a right one.
Whatever I’ve done throughout my life, I’ve always gone back to writing. It’s in my DNA.

It’s 12:29am now and I think I can finally get some sleep, Goodnight.

 

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