Hands down the BEST ANSWER to “how do you like to spend your Friday nights?”
“I’d watch a funny movie with a friend. Lying down, with our heads hanging off the bed, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths.
… Actually, it’d be driving and stealing cones. I have so many”.
Best answers to “what fruit would you be?”
“A banana so my best friend could be a monkey”.
“A grape so I wouldn’t be alone”.
Ya goof. You’ve managed to accurately capture yourself in a sentence and that is a talent.
“The moon is like a lemon wedge”, she said.
And I told myself it was beautiful and that I was going to write it down.
We ran with the lemon-wedged moon.
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What if she never saw herself as an artist?
Would I be the artist for recognizing her art? I’m taking the truth and I am framing it.
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We don’t create, we translate. We just don’t remember when or where we had once felt the same way. All of you poets and creators! We are the same! You describe what is in me.
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My story is the most outrageous. Until I hear yours.
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We are moments colliding. You remind me of all these other good things.
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The music is an animal. A moving mass that has possessed me.
A language. We have diffused into each other.
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Thought is a polluter. Please, can you get out of my head.
There are things that I’ve written about you that I will one day look back on and chuckle at. It’s always funny to see how much something once meant, how deeply something was once felt. Nothing can take away how my heart lifts when I remember, though. Happiness is a moment.
I can only hope I made you feel the way you made me feel. Thank you. Thank you.
I had to scrap this post. I don’t know why I even care. If I post something I later deem unsatisfactory, I will put it away and try again. The problem is, it’s hard for me to decide when things are good enough. I will not toss words together and leave it at that, or repeat the base-line for a song when I haven’t got a clue what to do next. I have to make sure that the song progresses, that the thought is well-rounded and executed. Oftentimes I will ‘draft’ these, save the songs or film projects for a later time- when my head is clear-, but after each alteration, the due date is postponed. I am trying my hardest to just write, because my older posts have a refreshing quality to them that I seem to have lost. Maybe that’s the price paid for practice?
Anyway, here is my fear: I cannot bear to be uninteresting. As egotistical as that sounds, I am a human person (Biomedical Ethics has me saying things like ‘human person’) in college, surrounded by brilliant minds competing for the attention of a few professors. Get recommendations, get opportunities. Not only that, I am inspired by people all the time. Questions in lecture, unabashed students in discussion. These people have a lot to offer. These people will make changes in the world, for they have already stirred something within me. I admire people who are engaged, passionate, and curious. I say this all the time. If I seek these qualities in people, shouldn’t I strive to possess them too? I realize that you can not acquire knowledge and formulate intelligent, insightful thoughts without engaging. Every person can contribute something- it’s just a matter of whether or not they are attuned to their surroundings/ themselves. Passionate people observe, question, and piece things together, building upon a personal understanding they have of their own lives. What they take in, they absorb and then spit out, leaving a unique, self-saturated idea. There is hope for me!
You say you’re a story teller and I believe you. You’re obsessed with stories- an artist of sorts- and I both admire and pity you for it. Why can’t you just let things be? Why must life be embellished through the retellings, no less than raw and tragic? Why must you live as though nothing is real? As if life is but a stage and you a performer, with every interaction a calculated exchange? Why must you look to the stars in contemplation just because your jaw has found the appropriate lighting? Why must you woo the college girl in the garden just because the scene allows it? All that is missing is a cameraman.
You talk to me but you listen to yourself. You read off a script that must sound impressive, inspiring. You patent every thought and claim their originality. Yes, mortality is scary, our insignificance is scary, but much more so to you, it seems. Why must you equate your value with fame and immortality? Are we not equal in death? “No”, you say. “Some people are more important than others”. And so I applaud you for earnestly looking for meaning, even if it is to be created. All the lunatics believe in something. They’re not insane, they’re just trying to find god, faith, something to believe in. Maybe a little faith keeps us sane because life is hopeless otherwise.
I let you hold my hand but it is meaningless. I am so tired of small chat. I’m tired of pretending for a shallow connection, but I will pretend and I will be someone else for the moment so I don’t have to run away. For now, the laughter is real. I’ve let myself go in this character and it makes me sad.