In keeping with the usual racket, this being the ineptitude of the majority of the student population, with allowance for certain exceptions (like the strange people that write books at the age of 17, about knight-river gods or some other dross), I have left an essay, due in at 3.30pm sharp tommorow, till today. Although I did dissapear off to Starbucks on sunday afternoon to write, and write I did, I still have another 500 words to complete, and my mind is in a mental funk.
I feel as thought the problem may be inherent in the room I live in at the moment, a simple all-purpose room with a sink and a space for shoes, that sort of thing. It feels as though the Chi is being blocked somewhere, or the wai is being clogging im my third chuckra of whatever the particular religion maintains, but this room remains a symbol of my free time, where I may do whatever, a base of operations. This would be true however, if I didn't have a crippling fear of the library. For some reason, the silence in a library makes me very uneasy. I feel as though people are judging the way I breathe or hold a book, and every time I look at someone, I'm afraid that they think im a drunk that is about to go mental. It's a very specific fear, that last one, but I've been told I have that look about me.
So what do I do? I can't work in two areas that are technically specifically designed for working. In all senses, it seems as though I'm buggered. AHA, good sirs, for you see, there is a particular brand of establishment that offers sugary and caffine based goods, and so, it would appear the day is saved. Ah, But I guess it closes at 5. Ah. And the time now is 11. Ah. Well, I suppose I'd better get back to it.