Does anyone else out there ever feel like you're losing valuable time? Like now is the time to be amazing and creative and productive, but instead you're just... stagnating? Like all the unimportant and mundane aspects of your life are slowly devouring any real ambition/creativity you may once have possessed?

This is begining to read like a Proust novel, but I'm serious. I know this is probably boring the one or two people who actually look at my journal, but I can't fight this sensation of wasting my life. I'm sure tons of college students feel like this, but... well, I'm not used to it.

It probably doesn't help that I've been reading loads of F Scott FItzgerald and Hemingway, who both have that melancholic nostalgia for days past. Still, at least Fitzgerald put a novel out by 24. I'm nowhere near that.

Aside from my paranoia about losing time, I've been well, and I hope you all have too. I have a few new poems, so please check them out and let me know what you think. Comments make me smile!