I'm not strong enough to hold everyone together.
Don't let go of any of them.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Evening dreaming
I sit cross legged in front of my desk, drafting an essay for my art portfolio, slightly distracted by the old stories I have found written down inside the journals that are stacked ontop of eachother next to my notebook. One of them is lying open, and I turn the pages with curiosity and a smile - how strange to have forgotten my own ideas. Intrigued, I put down my pencil and take the journal in my lap to read it. A paragraph ends mid-sentence, and suddenly a spark of thought connects two events in the story that I couldn't bring together before. I grab a pen and write in the margins before the revelation escapes me, then continue on through the journal. My thoughts are incomlplete, and I find myself dissappointed as the writing on the pages end. My imagination grasps at possible explanations for where the plot goes, idly wandering through musings and various notions.
The house is suddenly quiet; everyone left for the grocery store, a basketball game, a friends house; and suddenly my thoughts are sharper and more focused. I scribble down a handful of sentences for the essay, and then lean back in the chair to stretch my arms and look out the glass door. The sky is so grey, the pathway lights in the backyard have come on and dark stains from this morning's rain hold on to the edges of each stone of the patio outside. Something reminds me of being six years old in the back seat of our dark blue, four-door Honda with Maddie, watching the raindrops race eachother across the windows, picking our favorite ones and hoping each will be faster than the other.
My room is softly lit; the scent of a ruby candle I burned this morning still lingers, and with the white blanket around my shoulders I realize that I feel content. Too often I don't notice - contentment doesn't announce itself like satisfaction sometimes does. I draw my knees up under my chin, and think how I would like to stay in this place for awhile.
The house is suddenly quiet; everyone left for the grocery store, a basketball game, a friends house; and suddenly my thoughts are sharper and more focused. I scribble down a handful of sentences for the essay, and then lean back in the chair to stretch my arms and look out the glass door. The sky is so grey, the pathway lights in the backyard have come on and dark stains from this morning's rain hold on to the edges of each stone of the patio outside. Something reminds me of being six years old in the back seat of our dark blue, four-door Honda with Maddie, watching the raindrops race eachother across the windows, picking our favorite ones and hoping each will be faster than the other.
My room is softly lit; the scent of a ruby candle I burned this morning still lingers, and with the white blanket around my shoulders I realize that I feel content. Too often I don't notice - contentment doesn't announce itself like satisfaction sometimes does. I draw my knees up under my chin, and think how I would like to stay in this place for awhile.
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