I should have a tag for self-indulgent whining, but then I'd never do anything else.

You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you- no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: as yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple, "I must", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose.


Y'know what, Rainer Maria Rilke, if I were half as brave as Grima Wormtongue I would have quit this whole med school thing way back in October. As it is I scrape by waiting for weekends and not even bothering with the grades and keeping people and cities and football clubs inside my head, ready for me to retreat into when I think I need a break from everything, i.e. all the time, and it's a passable sort of life, but the thing is that I have everything any person could ever want and there are probably two billion people who enjoy life more than I do. Listen: there's a hell of a universe right here, right in front of your stuffy snobby nose, if you'd bother crawling out of your mental cage to look, never mind if you get burned.

You have two exams and three papers left this week, and the rest of the world the rest of your life. Let's go.

I should have a tag for self-indulgent whining, but then I'd never do anything else.

You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you- no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: as yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple, "I must", then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose.


Y'know what, Rainer Maria Rilke, if I were half as brave as Grima Wormtongue I would have quit this whole med school thing way back in October. As it is I scrape by waiting for weekends and not even bothering with the grades and keeping people and cities and football clubs inside my head, ready for me to retreat into when I think I need a break from everything, i.e. all the time, and it's a passable sort of life, but the thing is that I have everything any person could ever want and there are probably two billion people who enjoy life more than I do. Listen: there's a hell of a universe right here, right in front of your stuffy snobby nose, if you'd bother crawling out of your mental cage to look, never mind if you get burned.

You have two exams and three papers left this week, and the rest of the world the rest of your life. Let's go.