I grapple with myself. Society has ingrained in me so many ideologies that conflict with one another, and I don’t know which ones to listen to sometimes. Today is one of those days.
I really just want to write. It’s been so long since I’ve written a poem, since I’ve written anything I’ve really cared about, since I’ve written anything that feels real. This is the part of me that feels like an artist. I strive to see the world, experience and feel it, and spit out something that resembles how it impacts me and others like me. I express. I am elemental.
I am a traitor. There is nothing evocative about someone who sits in her room and does her homework like she’s been taught and told to do. I am just the pragmatic voyeur, and I do nothing to act on the urges of creativity within me because I choose to smother them with scholarly essays or long, seemingly pointless readings or busy-work assignments.
Today, I have no motivation to do my schoolwork. What effect are these papers going to have in the grand overture of my life? None. But when I think about not doing them, of skipping them to write or read something that I actually want to, my skin crawls and I can’t stop berating myself. I know that my conscience has been shaped by culture’s ideas of success and what it means to flourish. I recognize this formatting in my brain. But it doesn’t make it any easier for me to undermine it.
I don’t know what to do.