“…so full was I of slumber at that point where I abandoned the true way.”
I shlepped up the stairs almost an hour and a half ago, sending the boy on his way, insisting I was so tired I would collapse on the bed and sleep the dreamless sleep that only the truly exhausted enjoy.
But the writer in me needs to unwind.
This blog is the only place in my life where I ever talk about, or even think about, myself as a writer. What has brought me to this place, where I am suddenly the sum of my paycheck and my gpa?
I don’t read for fun anymore. I don’t write for the enjoyment, and I don’t worship for the ecstasy anymore.
Life is just one long checklist of things to do, people to please, and phone calls to make. That’s why I haven’t called you back in days, weeks, or even months–I am completely exhausted. Phone calls take emotional energy, as well as physical, and my well is just empty.
Even studying has lost its luster.
You know, I love econ, and I’m a geek through and through. I understand it with such clarity, and it all fits together for me, but damn it, I’m not a social scientist.
I’m a humanities person. If I were male, I’d wear tweed jackets and horn-rimmed glasses, smoke a pipe of high end tobacco, while sitting at a big oak desk, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books.
I liked Adam Smith better when he was a Scottish philosopher instead of a classical economist; when his name was connected with Hume and Bentham and Mill, instead of John Maynard Keynes.
This will always be the battle between my mind and my heart, and being the person that I am, I will do the practical thing. I’ll sacrifice my love for my livelyhood, trading what I long to do for what I should do.
I’m much too young to feel trapped by my choices.
And yet I do.