I have been avoiding writing lately. I have been doing anything to get away from it. Writing has been the cause of my muddled life right now. Or perhaps, not writing it is.
Very soon, I am about to pass my Review of Related Literature, but I haven’t read any related literature yet, or any literature at all. I avoid libraries and reading rooms; they’re suffocating. Being in one makes me feel like I’m fenced in a dark, tiny, awful-smelling box. If it compares to the feeling of being trapped in a grand toy chest, then I could put up with it; I could probably bear trading my little world called coffee shop to spend some time exploring that toy chest.
My other problem is I haven’t the faintest itch to write my story for our biggest project in my major subject. I am to write something about climate change. Heck, it’s freakish. I have been thinking of a different angle to make it an attention-grabbing kind of article. How am I supposed to do that? Not a part of my interests leans into that or into anything like that. I have no other choice though. I need to do it, but I need to want to do it first.
I’m a year to getting hold of that college diploma. Everything should be in shipshape by now.
BUT NO.
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