SEPTEMBER (some fragmented thoughts)
The sentences and phrases that are endlessly assembling themselves in my head are nothing more than the same contrived trite expressions and metaphors and phrases repeated and repeated and repeated over and over and over. The words I dare to put on paper never assume life; I read them and where I thought I had left thoughts I find only vague pathetic aphorisms and empty, pretty, meaningless contradictions.
It’s amazing that all the world of English literature is composed of the same twenty-six humble little letters, but lately I’ve been wondering whether those few characters can really be arranged into something new, unique, original. My words may be mine but they aren’t me, and in a time when a college will receive tens of thousands of applicants and accept a single-digit percentage of those, it’s hard to believe that there’s some permutation of those letters for me.
It is the fourth week of September and I wander the ten minutes between third and fourth period, a hollow shell wondering whether I still dream, unsure of whether I want to be awake or asleep. I may have entered these halls again a month ago with cautious optimism that maybe this would be the year — my year — but now the words that stagger haltingly from my fingertips are flat and empty, unsubstantial. Derivative, two-dimensional.
I once said that I would never be able to live in a world of numbers, that there was something more to the world that cold math could never capture. But nowadays I’ve been finding solace in math homework, in the simple honest dependability of integrals and substitutions.
Maybe there was something more, but it’s slipped my grasp.