Author: Olavia Kite

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.