But Sometimes March Sucks Too

[timeripple]

MY BRAIN: Okay! After much deliberation and chai I have a paper topic! I'm so relieved! Thank goodness that's done, I was really worried it just wouldn't happen this time.
MY BRAIN: Oh... wait, you want me to actually write the paper now? Sorry, no can do.

I had a great idea for a final anthology project that I actually want to work on, but I can't until I get these papers written. Somehow this gets more difficult every time.

Oh, is it spring? Here, have some poetry.


April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
...
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

(T.S. Eliot, from "The Waste Land")


But who knows? Perhaps my April existential angst wore itself out in February and this year I will be able to get on with the business of living.

Or, you know, paperage.