more or less, a waste

There is no any serious thing has been put onto the tip of the pen recently, but merely some correction here, some revision there and left a lot of files with only a bare beginning.

This is certainly not an enjoyable status. Until the day that I could recollect some systematic mind, I am not sure for how long I would have to wait. But the genuine question is, am I really somebody who are able to claim a systematic mind? Often enough, I suspect that I better admit that I am actually illiterate, or at least, not too far from illiterate.

My father has organized an exhibition for his students last week. His proud and satisfaction are not difficult to be seen from his face and his voice. Nevertheless, how true are the proud and satisfaction? Is it possible that he is situated to feel proud and satisfied for things, which, by far, distant from the standard that his innate and intelligence should have reached, if it could be developed healthily and undisturbed, while the whole life with his youth and energy, on the other hand, has been wasted on meaningless things?

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An idea appears in my mind suddenly, when thinking about Shakespeare and those great scholars: I am actually obliged to work on something serious, while I am financially supported by my husband. The only difference between my situation and that of those scholars, is that the institutions which support them, have no personal relationship with them.