Wants

Sitting here, staring at the article in front of me ("The Truth About Domestic Violence: A Falsely Framed Issue"), knowing that I really need to finish this essay tonight, and having absolutely no motivation to do so. I hate this essay. I hate all essays. I never want to write another essay in my life. Ever. I don't want to have to read what other people tell me to read. I don't want to write what other people tell me to write. I don't want to have everything marked, and graded.

I want to lie on a dock, in the cool air, listening to the sounds of nature, and singing aloud, knowing full well that no one else is near to hear me.

I want to sit in the park in the sun and watch the new parents with their children running through the grass.

I want to climb the top to the top of the highest building in the world and scream in pure exhilaration.

I want to backpack across Europe.

I want to volunteer in South America, digging in the dirt in some remote village in Peru.

I want to work in Children's Aid, saving all the children who need to be saved.

I want to do something. I'm tired of sitting, reading, typing and retyping things that no one will ever read - other than my prof - and that have no real meaning.