A few days ago, after writing a particularly horrible midterm, I looked up at the sky as I speed-walked home. It was cold in that "shit-can't-feel-my-fingers" cold, the bitter air seeping into your doubled-gloved hand, but I looked up. I happened to be in the older and more architecturally beautiful part of campus when my eyes caught the angle of a hundred and ten year old building and the sky above. For the first time since moving to this part of the country, I saw that piece of blue again.
Memories rushed back to when I had notebooks, napkins, and lecture notes with words dotted in the margins stashed under my bed. Words came easy to me then - ironically a lot easier than now as my writing is expected to impeccable.
Grammatically correct. Concise.
I've forgotten how The Bell Jar made me feel like I was trapped in this depressed bubble for weeks. How, within the span of a year, Shakespeare turned quickly from an annoyance to a goddamn genius. How I aspired to write a supernatural story grounded in mythology of a foreign country like in Tamsin. And how I felt that the magic in Garth Nix's Sabriel was far superior to dear Harry's swishes and flicks.
It was only a patch of blue, and it only lasted for a few seconds before fading away. The point, I guess, is that I missed it. I feel like I've been inundated in academia and journal articles to the point where I'm trying really hard not to change the previous sentence because it ends with a preposition.
I just hope these ramblings and fictitious posts don't result in failure and that I can finally stick to this, unlike that damn blue sky. Even then, I'd still go back to it.