I sit on my desk covered with marks and cuts I cannot attach a graspable memory to. The three books I started reading separately yet assigned the same fate to of dust collecting lay still on it, longing for someone with a will to pick them up. Yet I refuse to move them to a place for safe keeping until the day I decide to pick them back up arrives because I continuously convince myself that day might be tomorrow and if such a random burst of desire to read comes to me, I cannot allow my short term memory to interfere with such rare experiences. Although, I think that plan backfired since the more I look at them the more I am faced with my lack of motivation to live and the more I grow resentful of their existence as well as mine. George Orwell, Stephen King, you taunt me you mock me with your talents. If your company bothers me so much why don't I just do the sensible thing and move you to a shelf full of other pieces of literature I never plan on reading. I cant. I am rendered motionless and I cannot understand why my body insists on its lack of action yet my mind never takes that up. It is 10pm on a Thursday night and soon it will reach 11pm then 1am and eventually 3. By then, I will still lay awake at my abused and worn out white desk which never seems to have enough drawers for things that connect me to memories I have forgotten. I will sit here until my mother wakes abnormally early to pursue a career she hates only to fund my future which I will inevitably hate just as much. For 17 years I have gone back and forth on what I might be, what I could do and the day has come for me to make that decision and all I find myself longing for is the innocent past or maybe a future as ignorant and guileless as a childs experience. How can I move on when I know where true joy lies and there is nothing for me out there but only for me in here. In my heart and in my mind I will lay sprawled on the floor like a child throwing a fit until the day comes where something sparks the motivation in me to move my limbs and pick up what is now just a dust bunny with only few legible lessons and themes signed by one of the greats. Maybe then, through the books I refuse to read, will I find a will, a plan, or perhaps merely an idea to birth something in me. Until then I stand still and stare at my desk, trying to remember how old that carving is and wether or not I was happier back then.