"A life should leave deep tracks," says the poet. Shall I make that my new goal? Shall I focus on . . . oops! my mind, somewhat dim on the best of days and especially so today, just blanked out, the way TV sets used to turn off, shifting in the blink of an eye from ersatz joyous activity to a black blank screen with a tiny bright light at the center. You're probably too young to remember those old sets. But just like that is my mind, minus the glimmer of any sort of focused light at all.
Confusion reigns. What do I know, indeed, about anything? This is not a day for pronouncing on weighty topics like whether or not a life (is it really my life I'm discussing here?) should (and whence comes this external imperative?) leave deep tracks, aka ruts. As in inescapable ruts, ruts of drudgery and sameness and endless repetition.
Essay topic: "RutsGood or Bad?" Augment your essay with personal experience and quotations from great works of literature.