Just wrote a paper on Jane Eyre and the foil characters in the novel. The next day, a paper was due in my poetry class, in which I compared "Wild Nights" by Emily Dickinson with "20" by Sappho, that was interesting. And now, I'm writing a paper on the Muslim mystic Rabi'a and her use of the feminine soul in her poetry.
School is in full swing, and even though I usually want to pull my hair out, I'm finally studying the things I love. Even if I have to write pages and pages analyzing literature, at least I'm analyzing literature, right? Sometimes I feel like the tiniest drop in the sea, sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in possibilities and responsibilities and the disabilities of my brain aren't letting me even make a ripple in the sea of humanity, of literature. But at least my little drip hasn't been dropped into a vat of oil.