It almost seems like college, the "alma mater", mother of our souls, is set up in such a way as to stifle our search for contentment. And yet perhaps this havoc is exactly what I need? By constantly overturning and reforming beliefs, I have come to realize many things about myself. It would be nice if they gave me more time to write, though; I found months go by without a single poem writing itself through me! And when I did take up the pen again, when my tempermental muse returned, it had changed. Not overtly, but perceptibly. I find myself striving to create more meaning with my works, and she keeps insisting that they be cathartic. Maybe one day we'll reconcile. I seek open-mindedness with the reservation of wisdom, passion with the tranquility of an afterthought (yes, like Wordsworth). And then again, some days I place my pen to paper and leave it naked. I am content. Relieved, even. At least some days, some miraculous nights, poetry appears.