School

School is an endless parade of due dates and awkward moments.

  I faced her, she wasn’t harsh, just magnificently big. She handed me my inadequate journal. I said nothing and her only reply was “It’s not finished, I thought you said you finished.”Her words were like a monster. It wrapped its sickly cold boney fingers around my throat steeling the warmth that held onto my skin. I choked a little, trying to fight it, trying to stand mighty and tall against my teacher. I imagined myself a great Roman warrior in metal armor, baring a sharp potent sword. And most of all I imagined myself as a person of courage and dignity. But I stood there the vision fleeting from my grasp. I was a small creature with no dignity and no establishment. So as coldly as the fingers had choked the breath out of me, I sunk into my seat holding the book that had labeled me undeserving. I let it sort of fall out of my hand and onto the floor. School is an endless parade of labels and due dates. And I am the aimless wanderer in the midst of the high school.

Faded

My dear, the days roll by and I am forgetting you. The way your words roll off of your tongue. I’m forgetting the gentle scent your skin gives off. You are but a watercolor painting in my memory and the colors are fading. Once the colors gleamed with passion, but now they are faint and worn with time and distance.

The hot air balloon

This morning I was imagining a lovely character. A seven year old girl who meticulously cleaned her room everyday, making sure each nick nack was exactly in its place. a very simple character trait but it suited my fancy for the morning. So as i was driving up the uncommonly steep hill, i saw a hot air balloon in the distance. It was softly grazing the clouds and slowly rolling past the mountains. I imagined my character riding ecstatically in the wicker basket, completely unaware of the world. Naturally, (i thought to myself) one would be if they started the morning off soaring with the birds, in the quiet serenity of the vast expansion of sky.

Dreams

The morning is a time of thought. 

 A time to remember the places that you’re subconscious took you, and a time to reflect on why your head thought of such a thing.

Many people dream weird random dreams. But I believe my dreams hold little secrets and when I close my eyes and enter into the world of my sub consciousness it is like unfolding these secrets.

I once had a dream where I was in a muddle. Set in the 50’s.

I was married to a man. Yes, he was successful, but very cruel and unjust. He farmed and killed animals. I hated him. Then there was my lover. My lover was a young man, Handsome, of course, with curly wild young chestnut hair. And even though he was “prince charming” he also was trouble. He brought confusion into my life.

My life in the story was a stormy troubled sea, and in one scene I ran into a little room. I closed the door and suddenly the tempestuous sea was still..calm. The room was made of old wood. There was a table in the middle of the room full of open paints, canvases, Books, bits of old cloth, and paintings. By and by the room was messy, but in a delicate way, as if every single thing was placed there for a reason. And the smell of the room.. it was the comfortable smell of old books and life. Yes living, breathing, thinking, and a beating of a heart. That smell that can bring a person to their most comforting memory. But not only that there were many windows in the room that allowed the sunlight to come into the room freely. However, this sunlight was not direct like it is on a mid summers day. No it was angled, because the sun was setting. The light was a flushed pinky color and it filled the room with feeling and warmth.

Now for the important part, the dangling pieces of paper from the ceiling. Each paper was strung together with old yarn and on the papers was paintings, and scribbled notes. Mostly scribbled notes.

I was enticed by the old and warn pieces of paper, so I listlessly sauntered my way towards them. Once I was under them I closed my eyes..and let all of my worries floated away. The sun sort of kissed me, and all I heard was the beating of my heart, and the soft lulling sound of the papers caressing my face. And when I opened my eyes I knew, I knew that everything would be okay. I knew that somehow I could always write, and create and do what I do best. Revel in the tiny little things that seem so small, but in the end are so grand because they bring our tempestuous sea’s to a desirous halt.