I like to think of writing as my greatest talent. It's soothing, and allows me to get out thoughts I don't think I'm supposed to say aloud to those around me. I want to be a great novelist, writing sweeping epics that entertain and profess a lesson you've always known but never understood. Even journalism would be an ideal career if I could do it; be the next H. L. Mencken and write scathing columns on our government, our society, and our public figures (or other writers who take themselves too seriously).
One thing I've never wanted was to be a poet. There's little career there; most poets write as an add-on to their real job (or they teach). In school, I've always hated studying it. English teachers like to tear poems apart, turning beautiful and soaring words into the mundane and ugly––like them. Poems seem, to me, frivolous because they can literally be random words thrown together on a page in an odd formation and be considered poetry. They don't have to be pretty; they don't have to flow; they don't have to even be poetry, as so many poems I've read are like books with too many line breaks.
But poetry seems to be my calling. I'm good at it (I think). At least, I'm good at it enough that I don't care who reads it, or if it sells, because I love the sound of the words and the fact that they mean something to me when put the way they are. And in the middle of the night when I can't seem to find sleep inside this chaotic mind of mine, poems flow. Most importantly, they make me feel better to write them. It takes feelings and thoughts from the hidden cabinet in the back of my head where I store them (the ones that bother me or make me pensive––usually in a bad way) in neat little jars and splays them on paper where, even if no one sees the poem, the feelings can stay.
Okay, I know: the people who might potentially be reading this want to know how life goes abroad. My first day in London is complete, and here I sit at 5 in the morning, writing because sleep has come and gone. Like my final observation after my trip here last summer, I find myself unimpressed with the city. London is frigid, with dour clouds that mar the sky and any potential photos. Everything is ridiculously expensive (the exchange rate is something like $2.17 to a pound). It might be the jetlag making me crabby, but I'd really rather just get a move on down to Cannes, where the weather is humane and there are beaches. Don't get me started on the food. I think I'm basically fasting for the two days I'm in this city, aside from one overpriced Indian dinner. They can't make decent croissants, for god's sake, which is something even Harris Teeter manages on more than one occasion. Honestly, I can't see how people live here. Must be one of those things like Vegimite that you have to grow up with to appreciate.
The English countryside, on the other hand, I would love to see. Maybe one long weekend I'll come up here from Paris and see the old places, beautiful places (which excludes London, though that should go without saying).
I know I'm being a tad harsh. Like I said, it's probably the jetlag.
Silly me, haven't even mentioned the people yet. Those who will be spending the next semester with me in Paris and one of whom who will share a room with me (wish them luck, I'm a bear in the mornings). What can I say? The vast majority reminds me far too much of high school, where girls dressed in clothes that made them look cheap and the topic on hand was alcohol and the attempts to consume as much of it as possible in a single day. I have no problem with alcohol; I like wine, and I like tipsy. It's a great feeling. But there are things I love more, which probably couldn't be said of the above mentioned crowd, and on my first day in London after a 25 hour stretch without rest, my primary focus, and my only love, is sleep. We have plenty of time to "party" in Cannes and Paris, and I don't share the need to spend as many nights possible in a pub. Sometimes a nice quiet dinner with friends is good too. Besides, drinking is expensive.
On that note, there are a few people I can relate to. Tonight, two girls and I went out with our laptops to find a Wi-Fi cafe (preferably free, as most people want to charge 5 pounds per hour––that's $10, and painful), where we enjoyed access to the rest of the world and a lovely hot chocolate. Then we crossed the street for dinner at an Indian restaurant (the only good food in this country), and went to bed at a reasonable hour.
Then I was awakened at 3 AM by drunken, loud, conversational girls in our study abroad group who occupy the room next door and don't understand that breakfast at 7:30 AM comes early. My mind woke up, got on its usual track, and I ended up sitting in front of my computer after scribbling a poem, writing this post.
Again, maybe I've been harsh and judgmental. Blame falls to jetlag until otherwise noted.
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