I’m missing out on everything because of my schedule, because of how much sleep is required to be a better human, how much relaxation is necessary to keep level, calm, to let it go and to avoid stress fractured skull, like I felt earlier when some fools couldn’t decide on a time to complete a silly little group project. As if saying “I’m a bit stressed out” is any sort of excuse. As if having a submitted poem denied by the publication after three months of waiting feels like some sort of relief. I forgot I had sent it. This winter was a drunken blur of scattered emotions like ashes in the wind, dumped out the urn of my 23rd year of Washington winter, of the deadened brown needles of a little doug fir sitting out the back door, and the rent climbs hikes up into the olympics and the internship opportunities are faulty and I am scarred because nothing I do seems to matter very much. All vacant. All blank. All stir crazy and the wind and the beautiful sun. I’m killing her plants. I want to throw away all her clothes and tear off the medallions of glamour on the walls and live in a cave. I want a basement couch with instruments nearby. I hate this needless excess. I want the backpacking journey into the waterproof wilderness and then to feel good about something in such genuine smiling that no photographer could warp that moment with shop tools, the screwdriver would loosen my tie by my smile would scream infinity because of truth and because it knows it is correct and good and the doubt is disappeared but now, now, now. Days are numbered. I am doing nothing. I am nothing. I am stressed over having to tell an awful, short story in French. About anything anything. Go easy on yourself. My time at the ocean. Does it even have to be autobiographical? No. Just correct French. Nothing you say will matter. It just matters how you say it. Not true in poetry, in the sunblinded glass windows of campus publications and a careless submission pre-holidaze december. What in hell am I doing. this isn’t living. This is hellfire in the seat of my soul but with no outlet. This is a geographical map without a compass. I am a passive floating little jelly in my own ocean. Wherefore can I discover control.