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 Posted: Fri Jan 15, 2010 8:48 pm
•°o.O O.o°•
𝔐 𝔞 𝔩 𝔞 𝔠 𝔦 𝔫 𝔞
•°o.O O.o°••°o.O O.o°••°o.O O.o°•
Writings and Other Things Of That Kind
•°o.O O.o°•
So like the title says I'm going to be putting any kind of writings that I have done in here, finished and unfinished a like. With open eyes (since I'll be reading them) and arms I welcome critics but not flames there is a difference and I hope you know that. Um...I can't think of anything else but yeah...
...SMILES!
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I've traveled the world twice over, Met the famous; saints and sinners, Poets and artists, kings and queens, Old stars and hopeful beginners, I've been where no-one's been before, Learned secrets from writers and cooks All with one library ticket To the wonderful world of books.
~ Anonymous ~
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Posted: Fri Jan 15, 2010 8:53 pm
•°o.O O.o°• 𝔐 𝔞 𝔩 𝔞 𝔠 𝔦 𝔫 𝔞 •°o.O O.o°••°o.O O.o°• •°o.O O.o°• A Thought That Should Be A Dream Finished
School Essay •°o.O O.o°•
Sometimes late at night, when the wind is soft and you can only hear it when you want to and the cars driving outside your window turn into a buzz and their headlights turn dim even though they do not, I lay awake too tired to sleep properly, thinking. I know I should not think it leads to the worse possibility, especially at night when no one is awake to tell you ‘you are wrong’.
The darkness from the outside worlds, even the inside of my own room which lay silent as it slept, seems to leak into my noisy thoughts. How can my room sleep with all the racket in my head playing around and hurting? I do not know, only thinking this racket is not even the good kind of racket.
Lying there, I recall not dreams or life though I am sure it starts from both and twines together some terrible wounding thoughts that I would want to be dreams. One in particular clouds the void of my thinking turning my mind and it is thoughts into overdrive always drawing back to it. It feels like a dream, which I am readily able to accept with the effect of dreams have on the senses of teenagers only providing knowledge of what is happening.
I am sitting in my brother’s old crashed-once-already jeep but my mom is driving. The radio is playing I can see the station it is on…or rather a number from the station it is on: six, but I cannot really hear it. I just know it is on. I am sitting in the dusty, old passenger side seat; I have bent my legs so that they are gripping at the lip of the chair only slipping ever so quietly. My arms are hugging me like it is cold but I do not feel it. I am staring out the window at the country side I see on road trips to California where my dad’s sister lives but I know that is not where we are going. I am not sure where we are going.
I do not think my mother does either, looking at the road studying it in such a way I know she could not even tell you the color of it. Her thoughts gone with the steady movement of the car that she can so easily control now with her age, for some reason I know this without looking to her. I also know her grey, silver because it was in light, hair was not silver but dyed a mix gold and auburn and copper that in present time I know has not been true in quite some time. Her unfazed eyes only face the road, I never seem to see the actually color of them. I always assumed they were the same color as mine but now that I am thinking about it I am not sure, so I cannot see them.
It is quiet, hallow, as we drive to anywhere and then I know where we are as the scene outside my window changes too quickly for me to register at first. We are outside of Memorial High School Senior Campus, driving down a diagonal street towards Airline like we do every morning after getting breakfast from Sonic. We are, my mother and I, are chatting now and her hair is silver and I can feel the cold. My bags hug my leg as they sit on the floor of the passenger’s seat.
I hate this road, it is illogical and people cannot seem to follow it, especially Victoria’s drivers. The gym sits across the diagonal road and I can see students or rather bodies that I know are students conversing in their groups of three or four and sometimes seven with ridiculous gestures that I do not even want to try and decipher.
We are stopped at the light. “Do you have a club today?” I hear the question too many times to count but answer as I always do after recalling the day. No if it was Monday or Friday, and yes if it was any of the other three days. She would ask what clubs and I would answer my speech ending just as the light turns the bright neon green. We start to go only seconds after the others stop moving and then a car stops in front of the gym in what I know is the middle of the intersection. I cannot for the life of me think of why they do not. My heart quickens as it does when I am competing in Jiu-jitsu but faster and my foot slams onto the imaginary brake on my side of the car as my mom gently places her foot down only this time unlike during hours of the event actually happening it is a second too late.
It is only a second. So many things can happen in a second too many to count I am afraid. In one second I can push a single key on a keyboard, I can take a breath, I can think too many things, and in one second a life can change.
In these dream like thoughts it does.
I slam forward and the seatbelt gripping at me, it burns and so does my neck but I am not focused on that as something cold touches the hot flesh of my leg. I am wearing jeans I realize in shock and pain. Car horns and tires running nowhere in one place racing to see who can reach the finish line inside my ears but all I hear is buzzing and distant sounds that I do not think I want to hear. It all seems so distant, so far away, and all I can see or focus on is myself and getting out of the car.
It is selfish I know to think of one’s self before another but at my age there is no other person to think of. At least in till the world comes crashing down just like my thoughts that remind me of dreams that I care to forget.
The world in this dream like thought is my mother’s quietness because all of a sudden it is loud, loud enough to push any coherent thoughts away. Hearing the squawking car horns, the dying engine of both cars, the gasps and chatter of people passing, a nervous phone conversation to authorities, phones flipping open and buttons pushed, the other driver crying, the teenager getting out screaming from the concrete he was pushed onto from the car’s open passenger door, my own haggard breathing and nothing from my mother. That was world crash down on me. That was what drove away any and all selfish thoughts. That was what happens in a second.
I could not tell you happen next, my mind, my dream, and my thoughts seem to dislodge and faze that part of the story away as if I am unable to even comprehend the agonizing feelings of death and the dying in your hands and sight that are to start and end in that section of the play. I hope, knowing differently, I never have to see it play out.
My leg is hurt, I am crying, tear stain my freckled checks and I do not know what to do sitting in the hospital waiting room of which I have only seen from television and I am praying to a God I do not believe in putting all my six ounces of faith into his (her?) hands because I am not selfish anymore and I understand this is all that I can do to help.
For some reason my mind does not even dream up my dad or brothers it is just me, waiting in this hallow room of guilt and pity, with another woman who looks old enough to earn respect and to be listened too but not old enough to become fragile and scary to a teenager like me because they are so helpless it is frightening and she is watching me with a visible silver cross around her neck. My eyes are closed but I know it is there. Her hair is not silver like my mom’s, but white like the clouds of heaven and her eyes the color of the sky that her angles play in. I do not notice anything else from her.
I do not need too. I just know she is there and that is what she looks like and that is the comparison any human being would draw from looking at her.
It is late now and I cannot seem to understand time as the minute hand glides against the resistant to the next hour. The woman is still there and I am thinking and even in thoughts that should be dreams I should not. My shoulder’s heave as I become selfish again.
I want my mother next to me and not here in this sterile room that no one should be in. That there should not be this quietness of suffering hanging like garland in the winter on fireplaces and tables in any building made of human’s sweat. I do not want to be there waiting I want her to be fine. I want to be home. I want to be with her. I want…
A hand pulls me from my thoughts as it sits on my shoulder. “Your will be fine, dear.” The old woman’s voice is calm and airy but hidden behind mist that I do not even notice she is still sitting across the room. I shake my head, ignoring her words because she is wrong. She insists she is right. I do not. She tells me again and again and again until she has spoken six times. I do not say anything my voice lost with my tears with my hurt leg with my hurting mother and with the coldness of my bones, but I nod.
And then the world is spinning everything is lost and I am back in the passenger seat beside my silver-haired mother who is driving my brother’s broken jeep and my legs are buried with my bags on the floor and where talking pleasantly about what the plans for the day is as we sit at a red light that should not be there because I do not get it.
“Do you have a club today?” I hear the question and answers as I always do after recalling the day. She would then ask what clubs and I would answer my speech ending just as the light turns the bright neon green. We start to go only seconds after the others stop moving and then a car stops in front of the gym in what I know is the middle of the intersection but sadly they do not. I cannot for the life of me think of why. My heart quickens and my foot slams onto the imaginary brake as my gently places her foot only this time we are fine and we are still talking and I am thinking of all that needs to be done today for my classes.
Then the buzzing of the cars outside my covered window become loud, a tire screeeeeches as it turns a bit too fast and I am lying on my back listening to the night and I am smart enough to know it was a just a thought that happens too many times and that I should be selfish now and let the tears I failed to notice pass and soak my bedding so that I will not cry tomorrow from the thought.
My eyes close and I am dreaming.
...SMILES!
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Once you choose hope, anything's possible.
~Christopher Reeve ~
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