stand for something. take action.

9.3.08

I always loved rainy days.  On those days, I seemed completely content being by myself, as I smoothly sipped my mocha in between puddles, hiding beneath my damp hood and moist waves of hair tangled against my face.  I would watch people as they passed, wondering what that one girl was giggling about and how long ago that pining friend beside her had decided that he secretly loved her, and if she would love him back.  I was content to happily listen to one sad song after another, maybe because I’m that contradictory of a person, which is certainly true, or maybe because I was secretly hoping I would slip on a puddle and someone else who loved rainy days would help me up.  Then maybe the next time it rained we could hold hands and listen to those songs together.  Or maybe we could share his umbrella- no, we wouldn’t need an umbrella, and besides, the type that I want to help me up would certainly not use an umbrella.

I don’t like rainy days anymore.

9.5.08

I walked down the sidewalk, alone.  I glanced upward, suddenly aware of the footsteps around me, each set on their clear destination, as I thought of how this same sidewalk had looked empty under the streetlight.  The feet all walked, walking alone, much like mine.  I thought of how there were so many of us, all on the same path for that one moment, all still alone, though occasionally bumping into one another, muttering a nervous “excuse me” from time to time, all continuing on our way.  Sometimes, I would find someone was walking next to me, perfectly in step with me, walking, with a total stranger, still completely alone.  I would wonder if they were thinking the same thing, what would happen if once, just once, as we walked together and apart at that same moment, if we could know each other, if one of us would mutter an apprehensive “hello”.  Sometimes, I would find that, day after day, I was walking beside the same person, only known to me as the pair of blue NIKEs stomping alongside me to the beat of whatever happened to be my indie rock band of that particular day.  I wondered if the blue NIKEs, or the person wearing them, rather, sometimes listened to the same music, or where he headed after he turned left past the crosswalk.  But for now, it was nice to have someone to walk beside, even if he didn’t notice my black flats, or even that we walked together, usually.  It’s funny how we can be alone, even when we are together.

9.10.08

I sat on the bus, watching water trickle down the window pane.  The muddy puddles on the floor, tracked in at different times by different passengers with different destinations, reflected back reluctantly similar, expressionless faces, tinged with discontent.  I sat, listening to a song about lonely people, on this lonely day; the reverberating vocals helped to cut the painful silence outside, other than the occasional shuffling of a bag, engine stall, or guttural burst from the brakes as the door reluctantly opened and another pair of muddy footprints made their way past. I sat, inadvertently tapping my foot against the cold, slippery floor, scorning myself for having forgotten my umbrella as I dragged a finger through my tangled, damp hair.  I sat, wondering if everyone else had noticed the silence, and if it bothered them as much as it bothered me.  I wondered if they wondered what I was thinking, too; I wondered if they noticed my discontented glance and matched it to their own, feeling a slow burst of relief, empathy, even.  I sat, ankles drenched as dampened jeans clung, realizing that I was foolish for loving rainy days.

But maybe I loved them because on those days, my usual discontent blended into everyone else’s; I could spare the false enthusiasm.  Maybe I loved them so much because everyone else hated them.  I am that contradictory of a person. Or maybe I simply enjoy indifference.

10.13.08

Remember that boy in the blue NIKEs? His name is Andrew, and it just so happens that I love him.

l

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11.10.08

You say I can’t stand the way I sit, silently, biting my lip. You tell me I should say something; I should be more than the ink on your paper, the rip in your jeans.  But we both know that what I have to say would tear those jeans from your skin, ripping deeper through the fabric of your heart. Let’s not deny that this would be more than justified.

You stare at me from across the room, painfully, sadness in your cold blue eyes and a numbness in your throat.  You said you would save me the last dance.  The look of regret was undeniably there as you danced it with her, but you could have fought harder than you did.  When you reached out your hand for me instead, rigidly embracing with all the fake warmth of a plug-in bargain-store heater, my foolish heart did almost melt.  But I quickly refrained as your grip on my had loosened to accommodate hers, she who you privately discarded but here openly embraced.  If your actions cannot match your reason, the spontaneous and true embrace of the moment cannot trace to your logic as you shared it with me. You succeeded in tying me with your twisted tongue and worthless words.

I may be a skilled painter, but the most true portrait that ever left my brush was that of me without you. 

when they said everything would work out in the end, they were lying.

so this dorky obsession of mine is to carry around a composition book with me everywhere.  this is something short i wrote a while back.

9.10.08

She cut her hair that day, standing before the mirror, watching as a lock of brown landed on the countertop, blowing lightly, then lying still.  She felt better, knowing that she could, for once, experience loss without feeling pain.  She wondered why she had to be such a coward the rest of the time, staring back at her shifted reflection, forcing a crooked smile across pale cheeks and chapped lips.  A curling strand dangled in front of her eye, then made its sudden yet gentle fall towards the countertop.

Much better, she thought. 

She woke up the next morning; her roommate soon awoke, too, to the sound of cracking mirror glass.