Dear ladies, gentlemen, and all the rest. I write this to you from a Slough of Despond, where I lie, half-suffocated and despairing, trapped beneath the weight of all this wearisome world and my own foolish self. The first of my burdens I have hopes of shaking off, perhaps even abandoning altogether, from the other I shall have no rest while breath still illuminates this mortal coil. Until the time when my flame finally gutters and dies out, I shall carry it with me, whether waking or sleeping, laughing or weeping, such that the final rest is a consummation devoutly to be wished. Elaine Paige expresses my feeling beautifully with her silver tongue in this song:
Truthfully, I have no reason to feel this morbid, except that I have just read Wuthering Heights, and, also, I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. If you came here for something worth reading, you are in the wrong place, and I recommend you follow this link instead: http://www.africa.upenn.edu/Articles_Gen/Letter_Birmingham.html. You will not regret, I promise you. It is beautifully expressed.
An abyss of doubt and questioning gapes below my feet, and a voice in my head (my Physics teacher's) warns that a single misplaced step will send me over the edge, tumbling down rocky slopes to my own destruction. Basically, I can't decide what college course to take, whether I should take a gap year, what college to go to, what to have for dinner, nothing.
I wish someone would grab me by the shoulders and tell me clearly and firmly that they have looked into the seeds of time and seen which grains will grow and which will not, and therefore I should take engineering, or that I would raise my eyes to the sky and see the path that I should take there, traced across the clouds in burning characters. In my weakness, I even checked my horoscope this morning, hoping for some sort of sign.
The cry famously uttered by Eliza Dolittle is constantly on my lips, I wake screaming it in the cold watches of the night. No, not "buy a bunch of violets off a poor gal,", the other one. "What am I to do? What's to become of me?" It's becoming a problem. I have been reduced to such a state that I soliloquize now, which is mostly because I'm basically confined to my room these days and there's not much else to do, really. My native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
Here's hoping that you know your minds better than I do at the moment. Yours indecisively,
Joanna Koshy.
Truthfully, I have no reason to feel this morbid, except that I have just read Wuthering Heights, and, also, I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. If you came here for something worth reading, you are in the wrong place, and I recommend you follow this link instead: http://www.africa.upenn.edu/Articles_Gen/Letter_Birmingham.html. You will not regret, I promise you. It is beautifully expressed.
An abyss of doubt and questioning gapes below my feet, and a voice in my head (my Physics teacher's) warns that a single misplaced step will send me over the edge, tumbling down rocky slopes to my own destruction. Basically, I can't decide what college course to take, whether I should take a gap year, what college to go to, what to have for dinner, nothing.
I wish someone would grab me by the shoulders and tell me clearly and firmly that they have looked into the seeds of time and seen which grains will grow and which will not, and therefore I should take engineering, or that I would raise my eyes to the sky and see the path that I should take there, traced across the clouds in burning characters. In my weakness, I even checked my horoscope this morning, hoping for some sort of sign.
The cry famously uttered by Eliza Dolittle is constantly on my lips, I wake screaming it in the cold watches of the night. No, not "buy a bunch of violets off a poor gal,", the other one. "What am I to do? What's to become of me?" It's becoming a problem. I have been reduced to such a state that I soliloquize now, which is mostly because I'm basically confined to my room these days and there's not much else to do, really. My native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
Here's hoping that you know your minds better than I do at the moment. Yours indecisively,
Joanna Koshy.
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