"but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you"

- Yeats

I'm struggling really a lot with writer's block. I feel that I don't have time to write. I don't have time to be disciplined, to mine the images which aren't coming easily any more. Writer's block makes me irritable, but so does being stressed because I don't have time. Also, form irritates me.

I know that spring break is coming, and I want it to be now. Yes, this is me being petulant. I have no motivation. I want to be a genius and not have to do any work to become one. Poetry is hard. Art is hard. Paying attention in classes you hate is hard. I hate bioethics. And also art history seems to be getting boringer and boringer.

I'd better get all this complaining off my chest now, because Lent is coming up soon. I forget what Lent is supposed to be about. I've never been to an Ash Wednesday service. I had a friend in middle school, on the swim team, Rachel, who was Catholic, and she came to practice one night with ashes on her forehead. She also asked if peanut butter was considered a meat or not - because she couldn't eat meat (unless it was fish) on Fridays or something. I forget.

In conclusion, "Portugese poet Fernando Pessoa so wanted a literary community that he created one with his own imagination. Writing under his own name as well as invented "heteronyms," including Ricardo Reis, Alberto Caeiro, and Alvaro de Campos, he created hundreds of poems under dozens of identities. His imaginary creations wrote letters to each other and to the editors of magazines in which they praised or criticized each other’s work, and had extensively developed biographies and styles, becoming friends and supporters, mentors, or enemies of each other and their creator."

I find that funny.

"Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom."

-James Wright