requiem for a paper

"And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones"

And the stereo plays on. The sky is dark and crickets busily living as
my fingers pound personal indentations into an ideology and nation I’ve never seen. After sixty pages of writing and months of thought, I can’t help but feel a bit removed. “Communism under the Influence?” It sounds researched, clever, and even convincing...but what does it profit? Have I discovered truth? Does truth matter? Considering that my professor and I are the only ones to see these painful efforts, why should I care? Like a piece of seasonal furniture, I work day and night to the light of my front porch. When tired, I drink coffee; when discouraged, I pray; when bored, I watch the stars; when alone...I remain alone. Last night I wore my hooded sweatshirt and typed to the beat of spring showers. Tonight, I am wearing the same sweatshirt…but the air is dry and cold. It keeps me awake. I have created a fictitious world of poly-theory (sixty pages of it); it is beautiful, it is convincing...and somehow I want nothing more than to take it out and burn it. Let it satisfy the system (receive the grade) and then let me move on. Someday—I’m sure—this will be a beautiful memory. But today, the memory is in the formation; the memory is in the pain. It is real, it is beautiful, and it is pain.