We are dreaming, sometimes soundly sleeping are our bodies as our minds revolt.

Listening to Cat Power, staring at that first line, unable to think of subsequent sentences, my mind cowers and the muted sitcom on my TV flickers images at me.

“When no one is around, love will always love you,” Chan Marshall sings. And it reminds me of a poem I wrote that, so far, has had no usage and has lurked in the back of my placid thoughtlessness for weeks: “Lover I don’t have to love, amplified are my eyes.” That’s it. I didn’t know what else to say and so, as a result, all of the poems growling in my gut are being fed so as to silence the extent of your oblivion.

Still ingesting flickering images and meandering Cat Power lyrics, I struggle to alienate one topic and exploit it for 500 words.

My friend tells me that I need to write for my readers. Though, in a much more reckless fashion, I chance risking sounding pretentious for the sake of lavish, abstract prose. Plus, once I graduate college and begin living in the real world where actual instances occur, I probably won’t be able to imply that a room full of politicians is evocative of sharks shitting in each other’s mouths. Not that this phrase contains eloquent language. What I am trying to say is, I don’t know if I’ll be able to pass off whatever I feel like writing as a column.

I assume, in the real world, whoever is in charge will ask me where the substance is, the facts. They’ll ask me to present the other side, tell me how to correctly and accurately devour the pre-picked, current events. I’ll have to grapple with controversy instead of squandering away precious inches in newspapers or magazines in an attempt to offer the constantly refueling world a reprieve from its blatantly consumeristic spirit.

I think we all fear the thought of having to become about something. Though, some of us do it so seamlessly that it seems, to the rest of us, a natural progression. Most people value relevance and point. Personally, I think I’ll wander for a bit longer in the abyss of my sleeping body’s revolting mind.

“I am just an animal and cannot explain life,” a bathroom wall helpfully reminded me the other night.

Nicole Hennessy is a senior magazine journalism major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].