At the peak of my sleepiness, I detest witnessing the sunrise. Surely, this marks the beginning of a person's day but it is the unfortunate mark of the insomnia I have inflicted upon myself. The heat of due dates and exams has long cooled and eventually, it will emblazon once again. I cannot even impose a normalizing tinker of my body clock which has long been adjusted to a stressed sophomore's necessity. My body insists my wakefulness. I do not lack the necessary number of hours of shut-eye but my body seemingly lacks those night chemicals with long names my mother easily memorizes.
The Infancy of my Writing Style
Nabokov and Fitzgerald have harnessed writing styles that I do not expect to match in a couple of years. My writing style is ripe. I still lack the vocabulary necessary to capture the intricacies of my surroundings. Fitzgerald handles words with such drama that the plot of Gatsby's endeavors seemed so vivid as opposed to the dullness of Austen's imagery (I don't really like her, as the reader might have already known). Nabokov has an art of word combination that the tastes of the syllables dance on your tongue--as if each letter has a flavor the taste buds could not exact in all precision. Such beauty. Such majesty. How depressing.
Passion
My lack of it. Apparently, dullness is an understatement. Even my dreams are morose. Thankfully, there are many worlds to explore and there are many lands to tread. I have lost the ability to desire. Even my desire to desire is bland and fucking weak. I am a walking rag doll with an uneven temper and fluctuating moods. But to be nice to myself, I shall say that I am unique. Euphemisms.
Because I feel the breaks and the fluxes dramatic:
