motivation, or lack thereof

OH HI.

no doubt i've lost my readership having not updated this little wonder in weeks. oh well, i'm sure the three of you are on to big and brighter things now. unfortunately i'm still rowing my boat one short of an oar, meaning that it feels like i'm going round IN BLOODY CIRCLES.

well it's certainly not that depressing, if indeed depressing at all, but instead of going on one mighty big spiel on how the last couple of months or so of my life have panned out, i'd rather give you a dramatic account of how much a disaster today has been. because really, the last couple months have been rather decent.

WRITER'S BLOCK. now i'm no george orwell, and even if i go into a career of producing parking tickets then i'd consider my career as a writer a success. yet even so, writing is a huge part of my life. as an academia student (ha!) i produce many an essay a year, so being on top of your game when it comes to producing your thoughts in an interesting and engaging fashion is vital to success. yet here i am, first essay of the new semester, and i can't write for shit. certainly not on the literary techniques of charles dickens, and i'll be damned if i'm gonna do much better next week when it comes to explaining the complexities of matthew arnold's interpretations of culture. it's not like i can't engage myself with the content at hand. hell, i've been staring at pages of my own notes regarding pip's greatest of expectations all sodding week. yet for some reason, that motion of formulating an idea and getting it typed in my own conviction is proving far too difficult. and i can't understand why.

take this entry. this blog. i've been typing now for less than ten minutes. call it stream-of-consciousness if you must, but i've had at it non-stop and had no problems whatsoever conveying my thoughts to you. so why can i not do the same for my essay? perhaps i do know why. earlier i was talking to my housemate about how sick we were of studying and how emotionally draining the past two and a bit years have been on our passion for our respected subjects. as i cast my mind back two years i recall enthusiasm and determination in producing the best possible response to whatever question was set. now, all i can say is that i'm just tired. tired of writing about what other people have to say. why should i care what dickens, as great a writer as he is, has to say about social stratification? what does culture and anarchy mean to me? it's just simply not a case of extending my knowledge of others anymore. all this feels like is just a chore with a means to an end: getting a degree. and when that's all you're aiming for, it really is difficult to find any motivation at all.

maybe that sounds ridiculous. what do i care. i want to write, maybe even do it as a career. but i feel all this is just becoming far too meaningless.

i feel i'm veering off the point here, and i did promise drama. today saw me lose 1000 words of pure, bona fide essay. just like that. no real reason, no explanation as to how it happened. just gone, like a flash. DRAMA. maybe that's the real reason why it feels like i'm banging my head against a lamp post here.

sorry for the complete lack of posts. october was a dry month. did i also mention that i'm a year older now? HOORAY. well, officially anyway. i can't fucking wait till i'm old and decrepit. here's to one more step along the way.