I need inspiration

I'm in desperate need of inspiration. My creative juices are as dry as beef jerky or biltong, if you're from the southern tip of Africa, at the moment and it's worrying me. I feel such a great sense of purposeless when I attend my lectures and walk around the place. I know I sound like a moaner but I've become one of those people who looks forward to the end of the day. Someone who very rarely remembers to live in the moment. Because I'm basically waiting. Waiting for my lecture to end. Waiting in the line to buy food. Waiting for my friends to text me so that we can do something. Waiting to go home. Waiting to eat. Constant waiting. In actual fact, I'm pretty much waiting to die. Sad, morbid, cynical? Yes. True? Absolutely.

In my final year of high school, my Drama teacher made us read a play called 'Waiting for Godot' by Samuel Beckett. Sorry to sound like an intellectual snob but if you have no idea who Beckett is then you can't quite call yourself cultured. Anyway, this play was strange and at the time, I thought it was a bunch of pseudo-philosophical/intellectual/artist bullshit. Just a bunch of people writing about depressive things because that is what art constitutes. I had quite a blunt and honest approach to plays, artworks and writings dealing with melancholy. A whine-sesh, I thought. Accompanied with the actual beverage too. I could never understand why self-respecting people such as these, who were educated at some of the finest institutions in the world, were depressed? I thought it was pathetic. A result of pure boredom. And to a certain extent, I think it was. But now that Vladimir and Estragon's state of waiting has become my reality, I sort of understand the position from which Beckett, Camus and others alike were coming. Life, when looked at introspectively, is a waiting room. Your entering the room, albeit after a wait, can end positively or negatively. In the same way that your life, when you die, ends happily or sadly. Depending on what you've done with it. Whether you've fulfilled your dreams or waited for them to be fulfilled. I know I've made a simplification of a profoundly thought-provoking issue but the gist of what I'm saying, hopefully, comes across.

I now wish I could read the works we had the pleasure of critiquing in high school. Unfortunately, at that time, my dreams and ambitions seemed far too important that I could not waste a second on morose literature.

Oh how the times have changed...