The Long White Road

So.

Here I am once again, time slipping through my fingers like red rose petals, drifting slowly and inevitably. One fourth of my summer is already gone.

I am tired of making the same promises to myself, and not fulfilling them. Why is it that we need an external force to make us do things? Where does our inner drive to read books go the moment we step out of the University Pavilion?

Maybe there is no answer, except another question: What are you going to do about it?