Why does it seem that in the midst of great difficulty and important papers, I always find the ability and impetus to write? Do I really need the extra pressure of an essay weighing down on my shoulders to get me going? I doubt it.
My theory is that every book on writing has been right all along, that to be better writers we need to write. It seems simple enough until you realize that there is cooking, cleaning, studying, and socializing to do. Then those few brilliant sentences you thought up on your chilly bike ride into town, the one which reddened your cheeks and reminded you why living is so damn important, slip away into some subconscious sea. We may idly hope that we can fish them out again, but most of them are "the one's that got away." Oh woe to my fellow fishing folk, for these ideas are lost forever.
I've been slapped in the face this week with realizations and wretched implications of my gender and the constant struggle and difficulty facing women. I've been caught up in the question of how I ought to interact with the fact that I do have privilege in my society and how I can only begin to imagine what it's like for it to be otherwise. What am I to do about this? What am I to do with a realization that women are quite often treated as second class citizens and, as a man, what do I do about it? In what ways do I propagate this inequality, both consciously and unconsciously? These and a whole host of other questions flicker and shout for attention.
Head is getting worse. I'll need to think about that soon. It's getting to the point where it's affecting my studies. I can't ignore it as much as I'd like to.
These things deserve greater attention than I have time to give them right now. Is it okay that I want to think about these things more than I do Plato's theories of justice? Or maybe that's the point?
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