Don’t Talk To Me, I’m On My Theoriod

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must stop what she is doing and ponder. When the mind consumes the body and thought takes control. When the words of Plato, Nietzsche, Aristotle and Kant fill her head like a song she can’t get out. When the weight of the world’s unanswered questions becomes agonizing. When she instinctively sits in antique wooden chairs for long stretches of time. When she can’t help but to tie her hair in a messy bun, light a candle, and place a pencil between her pursed lips. 

And now, it’s my turn. That’s right, I’m on my Theoriod. 

This week, I don my finest tunic and leather sandals. I lock myself in my highrise suite and shut the blinds. For seven days I furiously scribble my philosophies, rub my chin, and murmur various hmms and ahas. I cannot hold a conversation without rhapsodizing. My friends go out to the frats, but I stay behind. I do not remember the last time I saw sunlight, drank water, or left my seat. But the pages are calling, and I must answer. 

For the next week you can find me keeled over my desk, surrounded by open books and jars of ink, my head in my hands. But don’t mistake it for midterm studying – I am simply on my Theoriod, and this month, it's getting heavy.