7am
My alarm goes off at 7, like it does every morning (except for Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and Tuesdays, which are my designated days of rest). I let it ring for a while, contemplating staying in bed. Artists are an amalgamation of feelings. I feel tired.
7:30am
I decide to get up, lighting the candles scattered across my room. I like the ambience, and the way the flame flickers reminds me of the futility of life. It’s not because I was doomscrolling with my phone on full brightness until 2 in the morning and the big light makes my eyes hurt.
8am
Getting dressed is the most important part of any day. It’s the best way to show that you’re above what’s trendy, that you actually have a personal style and don’t buy into silly little capitalism. Thrifted trench coat, scarf, fingerless gloves – thank you Pinterest for the inspo. And, of course, Doc Martens – in a 1970s British punk rock way and NOT a Radio One way.
8:30am
I wander into the kitchen. My flatmate asks if I’m going to class. I tell her I’m experiencing writer’s block, and yes, that extends to lecture notes. Oscar Wilde said, “Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.” I have made it my goal to never be brilliant in the mornings. She tells me I’m the only one who hasn’t paid rent yet this week.
8:45am
I walk onto campus, wired headphones in and Elliott Smith on. It’s raining again. I hurriedly type in my Notes app ‘grief = running water.’ I am so back.
9am
I order a black coffee from St Dave’s Cafe and make sure to sit by the window. No one asks me about my copy of Ulysses that I place on the table in front of me. I haven’t read it yet, but TikTok said it was one of the most challenging books to read. I sip my coffee slowly because I don’t really like coffee, but it also helps me look pensive and thoughtful (which I am).
9:26am
I Google “how many pages of Ulysses to read per day to finish in a month”. I close the tab.
11am
I head to my PHIL229 lecture. The guy next to me asks if I’ve done the reading. I respond, “Have any of us truly read anything?” He gives me a funny look. Clearly he doesn’t understand philosophy is meant to be about asking big and unanswerable questions. I could have guessed by the fact he is wearing Sambas.
12pm
Lunch time. I have an apple, which I brought with me from home. Artists hunger for inspiration, not food. The only reason I head to the vending machine 15 minutes later is because Cookie Time inspires me.
12:30pm
I set up in Central Library. I have two overdue assignments to start and finish. Putting on my non-prescription blue light glasses helps me get into a studying mood. Before starting work, though, I go for a walk around the first floor, looking intently at the bookshelves, reading the blurbs here and there. I know that everyone sitting nearby is impressed that someone actually uses the library for its purpose. I don’t check anything out.
One day, the book ChatGPT and I are currently working on will get published. I just need to get past the first chapter – ChatGPT never seems to be able to remember my characters’ names. It’s a dark academia, enemies-to-lovers-to-strangers, academic rivals, campus murder mystery romance thriller. The publishing industry is soooo hard to get into.
1:30pm
I go for a walk past the Leith. I like to look into the water and pretend I’m somewhere in the moors of England. Very Wuthering Heights, or so my English lecturer says. I haven’t gotten around to reading the first text on the paper yet. I’m going to do my essay on something else. Anyway, all it takes is conveniently avoiding eye contact with the discarded cans and half-inflated football, and I’m practically there. I think about throwing myself in, for aesthetic purposes. Decide against it because the water looks yuck.
1:45pm
Next, I wander through Quad, taking in the architecture. It's just like Oxford, really. Except for the broken vape on the ground and the fact that my GPA is about a third of any Oxford student’s. I perch on one of the benches, deciding now is the time I get back into sketching. I start with a rough outline of a tree. I quickly remember I am shit at drawing.
2:30pm
I decide I’ve had enough of campus; it’s stifling my creative talent. I walk to the Dunedin Public Art Gallery, hoping to be inspired enough that my masterpiece just… happens. I take pictures of the paintings that look cool and post them on my Instagram story, making sure to include my location. I don’t read the signs next to them – that takes quite a lot of time. I look at a painting that is just purple and red. I reckon I could do something just like that.
3:30pm
On my way back home, I listen to my ‘POV: you are a tortured artist’ playlist. If you ask me, The Smiths are pretty underrated.
4pm
Once at the flat, I get into bed. It’s been a busy day. I try to write a haiku (that’s a three line poem, btw). You have to get the syllables per line just right, otherwise the whole thing’s fucked. I end up abandoning that idea after 10 minutes for a scroll through UoO Meaningful Confessions. Now those are some three line works that get it right.
6pm
After a quick nap, my friend texts me and invites me for a drink at Mr Fox. We sit in the smoking area, and I have a drag on my mate’s cigarette. I keep hoping someone will take a picture of me, cigarette in hand, but no one does. It’s a shame, it would have been perfect for my photo dump so people know I’m more edgy than I seem. I spend most of the night nodding along to other people’s conversations. I am so misunderstood. Someone compliments my coat at one point. “Thanks, it’s vintage!” I can’t hide my grin.
10pm
Time for bed. I say goodnight to my other flatmate, who asks me to please, please throw out last week’s attempt at a sourdough starter because he hates the smell of rotting yeast. He thinks I’m pretentious, I can tell. But he’s doing a BCom, so who’s really suffering?