I feel that writing only works for me when it's 11:51 p.m. and I'm half asleep and I've decided to go in to school late tomorrow because it's my second to last exam. I'm looking now at the shadow of the plants on my windowsill and thinking about how I almost let the boy that I love drive home right before the storm hit and about how things work out sometimes.
I told the friends at my art table that I have a fear of being depressed and getting divorced and one of them told me that fears come true; and it's funny sometimes how I listen to everyone's words, but I guess I've learned how to pick out the meaningful ones (although I really haven't, I'm still so naïve), and for the rest of the class period I finished up my concentration, but in my mind I was staring at the desk, or my backpack, or the tile floor.
There's still leftover lightning hanging outside of my window and sometimes I sit in my car when it rains and cry about all of the friends that I love so wholly who I'll never see again because I'm too socially anxious to meet them in a coffee shop in a few years. Sometimes I think about the best friend that I lost and it hurts me when I see someone else in the hallway and I just don't want to lose some things and I don't understand why we have to lose things or at what point they're labeled as lost and why we can't save them sooner. Sometimes I think that we don't really get over things, either.
When I go to Tyler, I'll drive by my old house that I lived in four or so years of my life and I'll think about the time when my grandparents were so young and they rode up in a motorcycle: Memaw wore a red bandana and I could see love in their eyes. There aren't many things that I remember, but I'll think about the leaf pile that I made on the concrete when I must have been six or seven and about how I was so fearless that I jumped in and forgot about the dirt and the insects and whatever else was happening that day. I had a birthday party in the backyard once where I sat on a swing and sang a song about my favorite color and once, we all cried in the kitchen because of the tornado watch and I remember that I loved the hardwood floors against my bare feet and I wish that I could love things the way that I did when I was young.
I've gotten bangs since I've left, and I've held hands and kissed the same boy for almost four months and I've promised myself that I wouldn't continue writing unless my writing was raw and defected and real, so here I am.
I guess I'm growing up, and if growing up means travelling to spain and meeting thousands of new people than I'm actually ready to shove myself right into it. But, in actuality, I know that growing up means that I'll be away from home and for the first few weeks I'll be utterly alone in a semi-foreign place; I'll carry my laptop to class and I might not wear makeup some days, but I hope that I keep my small living space tidy and creative and I hope that I keep making art. There's this emptiness that I've been feeling, and I've never known what it is; partly fear, partly love and loneliness, partly the shadows on my walls and the rain on my windowsill and the thought of my own empty bedroom when I leave for college and the thoughts that remain inside of my head; it's strange.
And can one feel nostalgic about the future? (I'm not trying to say this to add some sort of cliché remark, either.) There are things that I see that I'm so certain of. I'm certain of some people, I'm certain and I get this overwhelming feeling when I experience some things, when I smell certain things. Perhaps it's my own contradictory self attempting to remember simple parts of my life that have passed, but perhaps it's my own mind, heart, soul imagining a future that includes these things.
I've been to the dallas arboretum, the aquarium and the dallas museum of art (my absolute favorite) in which I felt like crying when I viewed some of the art pieces because part of me can't fathom that such things were made such a long time ago, and for me it's such an overwhelming feeling to be in the presence of beauty; yes, art makes me cry. I'm not denying it.
I find myself thinking about what my life would be like if it were worse or better than it is, and then I spill a glass of water on the table and I'm then preoccupied with that small mess; such is life, I've decided.
I'll conclude with this terribly accurate quote that I found on tumblr:
"The trouble with writing is that it's literally always easier to just lie facedown on the floor and make inarticulate noises."
I'm glad to be back.