I never write anymore. That is, I never write for me anymore. And sometimes I forget that I started this blog for, among other things, an escape from all the academia and scholarly articles. Oh, graduate school can be a cruel mistress.

And so it’s April now. Traditionally, this is my most stressful month. Last year, in particular, was a gigantic mess. This year, I have much more to do, and certainly a lot more pressure to make the right decision and make it fast. I need to finalize my summer plans, find a new apartment, and tend to the numerous duties that involve school:

• Editing a book.
• Editing grants.
• Teaching.
• Finishing my thesis proposal.
• Editing a literary journal.
• Taking two classes with plenty of work in each.

Man, I hope I’m not forgetting anything.

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Take a bite of my heart tonight.

I think back to this time last year. It has been an eternity that feels like a moment. It’s as if someone slammed on the accelerator last April, and no one has hit the brakes yet. Not that I want to slow down… I just want to slow down.

Time can tick-tock away all it wants, but doesn’t it sometimes feel like the time is all wasted? Like maybe there’s something more important to do? Sometimes the very thing you’re looking for is the one thing you can’t see. I have to wonder if this is a universal feeling or if it just comes with my personality.

My INFJ mind is acting up again. Of late, I’ve made assertions that I’ve almost immediately thought were wrong…only to find out later that I was completely right. Second-guessing comes much too naturally to me. I should stop that, or at least ease up.

One thing I decided recently is that I need to remember who I was two years ago. I liked that person, and even though I love all the changes since then, I’d like to reconnect with my former self a little. I’d like to remember a time before everything shifted and slipped and sprung and stopped. Don’t you remember?

I do. I remember two years ago, I remember one year ago, and I remember yesterday. I remember when I realized I was going to grad school. I remember hikes with Mike to take our minds off our respective plights. I remember making a “to do” list.

But I also forget, and I have forgotten so much. I forgot the name of my advisor in undergrad. I forgot what it was like in the TA office. I forgot to call my grandparents.

I wish I could see some sort of graphical representation of myself to help explain all the changes over time. To show what was the most important thing to me at any given time. To see how much time I spend thinking about pointless things or worrying about my image and reputation. To measure my happiness. There are some days that I can’t tell whether I am happy or not. It’s bizarre and alarming.

But I soldier on, like the rest of the world, in my routine and sea of things to do. Stronger and wiser and tra-la-la.

I’m taking a major risk soon. I’m excited about it. I’m also not telling you what it is. But when I do, I’ll need my dear friends to either congratulate me or console me, depending on the results. (That’s how you become a high-maintenance friend - warn ‘em in advance.)

Reading this post, it is clear to me that my writing has become blah. Disjointed and without clear focus. Cruelly ambiguous and possibly ignorant of my audience. But you know what the weirdest part is?

I don’t think I have any real point to make.