Collective nouns in English are so poetic, they almost sound unreal. Here’s a list of my favorites:
an ugly of walruses
an escargatoire of snails
a flotilla of swordfish
a rhumba of rattlesnakes
a lamentation of swans
a stubbornness of rhinoceroses
an implausibility of gnus
a blessing of unicorns
a shiver of sharks
a party of rainbow fish
a misbelief of painters
My brain is the source of all my suffering. I hate it. I hate its unreliability. I hate how I never remember where I’ve left my things. I hate how I don’t do stuff in time and when I finally get to whatever it is I had to do I’ve forgotten essential things about it. I have to put away my socks but I delay the chore until only one sock can be found. I hate how I always get distracted.
I hate how my brain wishes so fervently somebody wished I was there. I hate the sensation of sheer loneliness that envelopes it. I hate its yearning for certain comforting words. I hate all the bad decisions it’s taken, starting with “I can do that later” or “this will be easy to find if I put it here.” Everything I put away in a safe place is gone.
So I’ve decided that I’m not becoming a writer after all. Does this happen to everybody? Who perseveres, and why?
I’m not becoming a writer but I’m still writing. What’s the difference? This effortless ranting does not qualify to be read by anyone but me when I’m older. I do like to write, but I don’t think I have the spirit. I’m not even sophisticate enough.
To think that 10 years ago I considered myself an artist! Now I think I’m just… someone with too many hobbies.
Getting a new job at an office makes me feel like I’ve failed at chasing my dreams of Academia glory. However, they say there is no such thing, so I might as well stick to reality. Still, I adapted so poorly to my last two jobs (i.e., got bored to the point of questioning my own existence) that I’m anxious as to what the next chunks of life in front of a desk that is not my own will bring in terms of mental health and satisfaction. I don’t remember ever feeling this lost, but then again, memory does not hold a lot of storage space for feelings. I’m trying to build a world here, but the atmosphere is so murky. I just hope I’m not treading in a tar pit, unknowingly sinking, heading nowhere but into the sticky blackness.