Wednesday 1:00PM
"alrighty"
Today (I'm just realizing how often a blog post begins with such a word as that) I disguised a heartbreaking letter to no one in particular as a school assignment. You may be asking yourself why on earth I would do something so silly or perhaps your mind is a bit more outlandish and you instead are asking yourself how I achieved such a deed. To both of those questions I answer: it was easy.
As I sat there hopelessly perplexed by much too many things a young eighteen year old girl should not be perplexed with, my hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it was somehow swiftly and savagely pulling out my notebook and scribbling madly away like a poor little seashell thrown carelessly into the ferocious sea. But you see, I was frightened not of the ocean itself, but what others might think of its colossal waves and gentle currents. What if someone doesn't understand the way they crash or why they must do so now? I thought. But then I thought of a cover more or less like a cozy patch of seclusion on the beach.
And so I scribbled this:
"Fantasy - Sci-Fi
Scribble #29
I don't know what to do.
Here I am sitting next to Leo Tolstoy (who by the way looks very dapper today) at a table in the library and I am completely distraught by the idea that I have an infinite white sea of paper before me, all the ideas in the world to fill it with, and yet the threads of emotion weaving inside me won't let me unleash a thing. I am maddened by rejection. I haven't a thought in the world as to what I might do. My ink is well supplied but I find my fingers solely disinclined and admittedly Leo is next to little help what-so-ever. He just placidly sits there, staring at me with his big, dapper eyes tinged with pathetic sympathy for me. His hand reaches out to mine then falls somewhere beyond, further past me, to the bookshelves behind--but then he realizes nothing in this world can help me more than him just being here with me and so the books are forgotten the moment he drops his hand.
Is it strange to say that I get lost in the subconsciousness of his love stories, so much so I ache and yearn for them to be my own? Even though I know they only nurture my eyes for a moment and never really help I still like to know it is there. But tell me this: If you neglect to go to the place you are supposed to be and instead end up here in an ever crowding library, where you see people you know and feel as though you were meant to see them right then--is it then you destiny to be here in the library rather than wherever it is you were 'supposed' to be? (Man, am I sounding like Prince Henry from Ever After in his moment of perplexity too? If only the other Leonardo could be here to tell me what to do.) I'm beginning to think everything is just chance or even worse--nothing at all. Heaven and earth, is there no hand gently guiding the paint within this catastrophic picture? I am at a loss as to what to do with myself. There are voices irritably wriggling inside the drums within me I wish I could hear something quite different and the mountains capped with snow have never before looked so delicious to my eyes.
I am alone.
(He calls me 'beautiful' and tells me I look amazing, but it hinders my frail demise more than strokes or flatters it. Perhaps he'll never know my disdaining admiration for him. Even in the bleakest of confessionals on this shore of possibilities, he'll probably never know. If I could be so lucky as to partake of his unknowing obliviousness. The feeling of inadequacy--from neglecting where I'm 'supposed' to be, to him never knowing and lastly to myself for stooping this low--cannot be shaken from me, much like rain from a black umbrella never truly dries until the storm stops no matter how hard you try to shake it off. Shake. Shake. Shake. It never leaves. (Does it?)
Now even books refuse to soothe me properly. You see, as this feeling I've just described has been upon me for quite some time (coming and going as it pleases) it was not unordinary that is was there on a day such as yesterday. I felt alone, but most of all dejected and so I came to the library and frantically began searching for a book to heal my unjustified wounds. My fingers traced every spine until it netted themselves on two: Tolstoy and Robinson. They seem pleased enough to be here and thus, my return to the library was not in vain on their part, but rather my own."
The day before I wrote this (yesterday, as it turns out) as I was going through my little "book crisis" I came to a realization that both disturbed and defined me: books in all their beauty and demise, are what I run to when I'm alone or crestfallen or betrayed. They may hurt me too, but never in the same way. And most especially never in the same way twice. My books are good books. They are my friends.
I guess they are my only friends today.
That's alright with me.
Until tomorrow.
k.p.b.
As I sat there hopelessly perplexed by much too many things a young eighteen year old girl should not be perplexed with, my hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it was somehow swiftly and savagely pulling out my notebook and scribbling madly away like a poor little seashell thrown carelessly into the ferocious sea. But you see, I was frightened not of the ocean itself, but what others might think of its colossal waves and gentle currents. What if someone doesn't understand the way they crash or why they must do so now? I thought. But then I thought of a cover more or less like a cozy patch of seclusion on the beach.
And so I scribbled this:
"Fantasy - Sci-Fi
Scribble #29
I don't know what to do.
Here I am sitting next to Leo Tolstoy (who by the way looks very dapper today) at a table in the library and I am completely distraught by the idea that I have an infinite white sea of paper before me, all the ideas in the world to fill it with, and yet the threads of emotion weaving inside me won't let me unleash a thing. I am maddened by rejection. I haven't a thought in the world as to what I might do. My ink is well supplied but I find my fingers solely disinclined and admittedly Leo is next to little help what-so-ever. He just placidly sits there, staring at me with his big, dapper eyes tinged with pathetic sympathy for me. His hand reaches out to mine then falls somewhere beyond, further past me, to the bookshelves behind--but then he realizes nothing in this world can help me more than him just being here with me and so the books are forgotten the moment he drops his hand.
Is it strange to say that I get lost in the subconsciousness of his love stories, so much so I ache and yearn for them to be my own? Even though I know they only nurture my eyes for a moment and never really help I still like to know it is there. But tell me this: If you neglect to go to the place you are supposed to be and instead end up here in an ever crowding library, where you see people you know and feel as though you were meant to see them right then--is it then you destiny to be here in the library rather than wherever it is you were 'supposed' to be? (Man, am I sounding like Prince Henry from Ever After in his moment of perplexity too? If only the other Leonardo could be here to tell me what to do.) I'm beginning to think everything is just chance or even worse--nothing at all. Heaven and earth, is there no hand gently guiding the paint within this catastrophic picture? I am at a loss as to what to do with myself. There are voices irritably wriggling inside the drums within me I wish I could hear something quite different and the mountains capped with snow have never before looked so delicious to my eyes.
I am alone.
(He calls me 'beautiful' and tells me I look amazing, but it hinders my frail demise more than strokes or flatters it. Perhaps he'll never know my disdaining admiration for him. Even in the bleakest of confessionals on this shore of possibilities, he'll probably never know. If I could be so lucky as to partake of his unknowing obliviousness. The feeling of inadequacy--from neglecting where I'm 'supposed' to be, to him never knowing and lastly to myself for stooping this low--cannot be shaken from me, much like rain from a black umbrella never truly dries until the storm stops no matter how hard you try to shake it off. Shake. Shake. Shake. It never leaves. (Does it?)
Now even books refuse to soothe me properly. You see, as this feeling I've just described has been upon me for quite some time (coming and going as it pleases) it was not unordinary that is was there on a day such as yesterday. I felt alone, but most of all dejected and so I came to the library and frantically began searching for a book to heal my unjustified wounds. My fingers traced every spine until it netted themselves on two: Tolstoy and Robinson. They seem pleased enough to be here and thus, my return to the library was not in vain on their part, but rather my own."
The day before I wrote this (yesterday, as it turns out) as I was going through my little "book crisis" I came to a realization that both disturbed and defined me: books in all their beauty and demise, are what I run to when I'm alone or crestfallen or betrayed. They may hurt me too, but never in the same way. And most especially never in the same way twice. My books are good books. They are my friends.
I guess they are my only friends today.
That's alright with me.
Until tomorrow.
k.p.b.
By the way, it's April Fool's Day.
But no, this wasn't a joke.
Sorry.
