April is national poetry month! It’s that time of year when we celebrate a genre of writing that most people either love or hate. For those of you who do not know me personally, I fall firmly in the “love” category and spend a decent amount of my free time writing in this genre.
At the start of the first year in university, I was determined to be productive and organized. I bought an agenda, but I realized that there would be weeks where I used it constantly and weeks where I didn’t use it at all. I didn’t think this was the best resource for me, so I decided to try bullet journaling for my next year.
In high school, I took visual arts every year, and I loved it. Weirdly enough, I’ve always had one art teacher (hi, Mr. Simpson!). I loved the amount of freedom I had with my projects, and the exercises we did every week; the class was liberating (especially compared to the AP STEM courses I took).
Long, long ago when I was young and dependent, my parents would nag about the state of my bedroom: it rarely met their standards of tidy. I would challenge their unrealistic ideals by questioning them. When this failed to help my cause I would shove everything under the bed.
Why do my clothes need to be put away? I’m going to wear them eventually; why must the bed be made? I’ll be sleeping in it again, tonight; who am I hurting? Why does this “who” care?