It's such a blessing to be able to share the last day of (the Gregorian calendar) summer, running the rain through, actually, multiple forests, quite literally frolicking in meadows full of flowers-- coincidentally, standing at the intersection of two paths, one that's less traveled than the other. Absurdly, continuing to run faster as it gets colder and farther from home, where the graffiti beneath the train tracks becomes unfamiliar and the sight of buildings equates to civilization, compared to where we stood, wondering, how much yolo is buried inside the magnificent human body.
I beleaf.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
Dry.
605 am, 20 minutes late, my raw cotton tshirt brushes roughly against my skin. Breakfast crumbs crunch down my throat, relentlessly grating the arid plains of my esophagus, all the while trailing a thick, tired saliva in the roof of my tongue. The skin peels off my scratched cheeks and tickles the threaded scar that never healed through my chin. My front tooth is plastic and I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair.
When the tide of guilt and humiliation crawl up my bruised and bloody toes, I notice the purple scabs and bruises pulsing in an eerily poisonous rhythm. The reddening keloid at my poptilial fossa (knee pit, for lack of any other accurate name) emulates a slaves infected back, minus ninety percent, but still repulsive and irritatingly pressing with blood that was never needed. My second toe might as well be declared an avulsion fracture. The hatred rushes through my arteries and my fingers involuntarily grab at my imperfections.
The 36 24 36 rule is an impossibility for my people, but my natural lenses make a plank of my torso. I miss the visible planes in my elbows and knees and the weak coldness shooting through my airy lungs. My calves sink and I carry my legs rather than having them confidently hold my tight spine in a pseudo casual slouch. My skin overrides the most beautiful mists. I itch. I punch the walls and grab my pants, white and pink cuticle less finger nails pressing fiercely in sync with my cracked knuckles.
I am restless, afraid, disgusted, until I pound in the rain, from speckles to strokes of the flashing clouds tears. The thunder emits a low moan of caged power, and God sends the might of his creation flooding through the air. I am blinded, weighted, miming the trees in my powerlessness to pity myself. I am humiliated and humbled, overwhelmed by even the symbolic presence of the great I am. In my dissatisfaction, my mind spins a 180 for the thousandth time. Humility is not beating myself, but lifting everything else upwards.
When the tide of guilt and humiliation crawl up my bruised and bloody toes, I notice the purple scabs and bruises pulsing in an eerily poisonous rhythm. The reddening keloid at my poptilial fossa (knee pit, for lack of any other accurate name) emulates a slaves infected back, minus ninety percent, but still repulsive and irritatingly pressing with blood that was never needed. My second toe might as well be declared an avulsion fracture. The hatred rushes through my arteries and my fingers involuntarily grab at my imperfections.
The 36 24 36 rule is an impossibility for my people, but my natural lenses make a plank of my torso. I miss the visible planes in my elbows and knees and the weak coldness shooting through my airy lungs. My calves sink and I carry my legs rather than having them confidently hold my tight spine in a pseudo casual slouch. My skin overrides the most beautiful mists. I itch. I punch the walls and grab my pants, white and pink cuticle less finger nails pressing fiercely in sync with my cracked knuckles.
I am restless, afraid, disgusted, until I pound in the rain, from speckles to strokes of the flashing clouds tears. The thunder emits a low moan of caged power, and God sends the might of his creation flooding through the air. I am blinded, weighted, miming the trees in my powerlessness to pity myself. I am humiliated and humbled, overwhelmed by even the symbolic presence of the great I am. In my dissatisfaction, my mind spins a 180 for the thousandth time. Humility is not beating myself, but lifting everything else upwards.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Dulled.
It's only been a month of school and I can feel the heaviness encroaching my summer lolzies. Suffocating fumes of winter and insecurity and food and running and muscle are approaching the corner and I hate that the cycle is rolling again. The monotony of the mechanics will be geared into motion once again. My stomach unhappily testifies to this truth.
I am tired. Sometimes I still hate myself. Most of the time I lack the mood to write in good prose and almost always my most intense thoughts whirl in the car, where I wonder if parallel universes exist in this universe and why people are so similiar. Why do the spaces between your fingers fit perfectly to mine? Just kidding. Hanky panky has not yet made its way into my clumsy questionably existent and much frowned upon romantic life.
Its so wonderful to understand. Sometimes I like people because they're so different from me, because they're fascinating anomalies in my one track mind, yet even when we are mutually interested (it happens sometimes...maybe), our diverging views are lost in distaste and confusion. Even if it was an attractive boy. Even if it was an admission officer from Yale. Sometimes even hours and hours of talking and flirting won't cut it.
But then sometimes someone comes along and grammar is forgotten. Words and thoughts and puns and punches just reel and roll off my fingers and on some rare and blessed occasion, off my tongue, because cursed school prevents actual human encounters more often than not. Its like the God shaped hole everyone has, but a person shaped one for worldly angst and love and relationships. This is someone who could be your best friend and someone that fits like the satisfying click of a ballpoint gel pen.
It's all about the connections. When we talk I forget I hate myself. I forget to try to find the strengthening dullness and see once again how beautiful is Gods creation.
I am tired. Sometimes I still hate myself. Most of the time I lack the mood to write in good prose and almost always my most intense thoughts whirl in the car, where I wonder if parallel universes exist in this universe and why people are so similiar. Why do the spaces between your fingers fit perfectly to mine? Just kidding. Hanky panky has not yet made its way into my clumsy questionably existent and much frowned upon romantic life.
Its so wonderful to understand. Sometimes I like people because they're so different from me, because they're fascinating anomalies in my one track mind, yet even when we are mutually interested (it happens sometimes...maybe), our diverging views are lost in distaste and confusion. Even if it was an attractive boy. Even if it was an admission officer from Yale. Sometimes even hours and hours of talking and flirting won't cut it.
But then sometimes someone comes along and grammar is forgotten. Words and thoughts and puns and punches just reel and roll off my fingers and on some rare and blessed occasion, off my tongue, because cursed school prevents actual human encounters more often than not. Its like the God shaped hole everyone has, but a person shaped one for worldly angst and love and relationships. This is someone who could be your best friend and someone that fits like the satisfying click of a ballpoint gel pen.
It's all about the connections. When we talk I forget I hate myself. I forget to try to find the strengthening dullness and see once again how beautiful is Gods creation.
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