you give me miles and miles of mountains; and i ask for the sea.

My middle name is discontent, and unsatisfaction is my game.

I miss the days where things fell in to place at the sound of a pen dancing across notebook paper. Facts flew along the pages, filling the lines until it all seemed to run together. New knowledge on a daily basis, and sometimes not quite assigned. I yearned and yearned for the books of history, for the new languages, for the new words. I ran out of plays and went on to poems, then novels. I found a niche in short stories and settled in with my own ideas, my own plots, my own personal satisfaction from the way that lips quivered or curled as reaction to the miniature worlds that I created in an individual's mind. I was proud, I was successful, I was something to be envied for the over achievers due to the little effort that I had to apply to be on top.

And now look. Those grades, they're slipping. They'll be up in a month when the new classes have settled in and I am in the rooms that make me comfortable, swallowed by the texts that I've read five or six times, writing the papers that I've jotted opinions down on just for fun already. I'll relish the comments of being brilliant, knowing instead that I was simply lonely at a time and found my place in this universe that they're just now opening up to the others. I'll laugh to myself and wait for the day that they're caught up, that I can't hold it over their heads that I'm giving answers before they've been asked the question. I'll lose my place on the pedestal of higher education, and simply ride the waves of compliments when it comes to creativity.

Why don't I care to learn any more? Give me novels, not facts. I know a billion people died that year but I've lost dozens on a personal level and it makes your plague far less interesting. Terminal illness? Oh trust me, I know cancer. Twisted poet? Oh, no worries, I've dealt with suicide. Those words, they run together; and I know perfectly well how to ignore a comma for the sake of creative license. E E Cummings? Read it with a red pen in hand. James Fray? Oh Oprah, who cares if it's fake - just look at the ideals! I hate the shine of Dr. Phil's head and my opinions on I Love New York Season 2 are as thoroughly developed as my stance on illegal immigration. Am I proud? I don't know. Am I brilliant? It wouldn't matter either way, so stop leaving those notes on my papers.


I miss the days of over achievement,
but I'm welcoming the days of easy sailing with open arms.
What happens when it's not so easy?
Right now I'm enjoying those eyes that peek at me in the midst of a film, who's arms reach out and pull me closer so that I can feel his breath on my skin. I'm enjoying the journey of growing with him, growing in him, sometimes beneath his nose and appreciating him in ways that he hasn't seen and I'm more than willing to not voice. This is my enjoyment, my miniature world of creative license and brand new facts to devour. It's enthralling and terrifying and far more beautiful than any Enlightenment thinker ever articulated when describing God and "hands off" economics.

But nostalgia's powerful; just strong enough to reach out and curl it's claws around my shoulders, dragging me in to a sea of faded memories and tattered photographs, wrinkled certificates and old letters that express feelings that have long since been gone; and most importantly, in to a sea of old accomplishments that I never truly wanted, never truly deserved.

I promise, dear textbooks, I miss you dearly. But your pages have gone so long uncracked and my grades have remained at a stance that does not yet make me sick... and for that, you'll stay closed. You'll stay where you belong, on the shelves for another who will want to devour you. I thought I needed you, when in reality I just used you as a way to not need anything else; anyone else.

Scholars get nothing but a certificate.
Those who live are those who succeed; are those who breathe with out limits.
I hate those limits,
but I love that certificate.

I'm torn between my mind and heart; they're not the same any more.