School is making me boring

I read something I wrote two years ago 

when I was polished with optimism  

Uninterested in my own naivety— 

wrapped in the known. 

I’m afraid  

that now, school has made me boring. 

The acquisition of knowledge has touched down on my collarbone, 

hooking itself into my grooves— 

pulling me to a slouch. 

Anointed by hundreds of hours behind a desk 

grinding for an opaque goal, 

gifting me with my first panic attack 

—and feeling stupid for feeling this way. 

I should’ve just worked harder. 

I fall asleep reciting physiology vocabulary 

and I’ve been asking questions that I have no interest in. 

My brain is porous  

and possesses unending potential  

for the osmosis of beauty 

But it’s been sucking up gene transcription regulation 

or how to medicate central vs. peripheral diabetes insipidus. 

I’m living for my to-do list 

while my psyche is exploring where I’d rather be— 

with Willow and Dom watching the light fade into newly emptied bottles 

saying big things in little words 

or Home-home, 

by the river or on the dirt road where you can see the stars best. 

Where I’m Known. 

But the work has taken my words from me. 

I remember when I used to write— 

when lamplight was gracious and warm 

when we would read by the water before breakfast 

when knowledge was a derivative of curiosity. 

Now, 

all I have time for is a command-f  

and a Google of my mental symptoms.