Pensive. Too awake for sleep, but the familiar tug of tired is pulling at my eyes, begging me to heed the call. I won’t. Not yet. There are thoughts that need thinking.
Snowy night. The city’s quiet. Sleeping, hardly, yet mostly silent. Mostly silent. Quiet. Eerily calm yet comforting. I watch from the windows, warm, or from outside, cool but not quite cold. It falls. It’s not dark when it’s snowing, even in the deepest night. It’s cool, comforting. The snow is warm and I welcome it. It’s peaceful. It will fall and there’s no stopping it. In the lights, it’s the most beautiful. You can see through the gray of the night, yellow light illuminating tiny flakes. Freshly fallen snow blankets everything. It was raining before the snow came, a thin layer of silent ice waiting until tomorrow to remind everyone we’re Midwest.
Reminders everywhere, of everything.
Falling in love with the city is so hard. Sometimes it is fickle and cruel, sometimes it sings, a chaotic cry of exhilaration. Joy. Pain. Love. Hate. All capitalized, of course.
There is so much silence in my life right now, and I’m bothered by it, sometimes intrigued, sometimes annoyed. Always something, never allowing me any apathy. I either crave it or disdain it, need it or refuse it. There is no grass, but it’s always greener, somewhere, anywhere but here.
It’s the back and forth, the here and there, the things that won’t and aren’t but are and will be. The need to do but won’t get done. Not for lack of time but motivation. Why? The great why.
Someone once asked me, no told me, about the thrill of success. I guess. When I get a low A I’m upset. But when I get a B with no effort, watching the faces of silent B+ kids who tried and, in their minds, failed, I win. What is their struggle but a letdown? Why not not struggle for no letdown? Barely scratching at the middle, that’s me. A mediocre person in a big wide-open sea. I’m me, of course, but what is that? On paper, nothing, no one. To someone, I must be something, right? Perhaps one day. And then I’ll want the success that could come, I’ll want to be that B+ kid trying harder for the A. Somehow, some day. (Maybe)
Everything is like that.
Choices, always making decisions. Everything is miniscule yet reverberating. Sobriety is sobering. Cold water, fresh air, things that are supposed to bring clarity. Spinach.
What could have been?
What if I hadn’t been there, then? What if I’d missed that train or not said that? What if I’d passed you without a passing glance?
Hot coffee eventually cools. And then is it worth drinking? Of course, but it’s not the hot coffee you had before. Oh, there’s the reheat, of course, a temporary solution to an eternal problem.
Rewrite. Relive. Prescribe. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. It’s all pretend, pretention, pretentious, pernicious. It goes like that, you see. It’s a slippery slope from where you are to where you’d never thought you’d be. Dreams are dashed, crushed hopes collected in someone else’s universal looking glass.
Thought process interrupted by social networking. Nothing important, never is. Time consumer, that’s what America’s about: consumption.
Click, click, click, click.
The girl who sits in front of me laughs because I spend all of social work class writing. Nothing good. My romance novel will never happen. I can’t describe. Adjectives, emotions. I’m working on it, probably. Hoping.
Here’s to hoping….to end the silence. Both from the world and from inside myself. I’d like to spring forth words, spill them onto a page, typing until my fingers burn. I’d like for those words to mean something, make something beautiful. Spring love into the characters and their lives.
I’m off to go attempt that, wish me luck, or rather hope for inspiration. Any sort. They can’t fall in love in winter, I’m against that for some odd reason. Never liked the thought of winter as a time for that. But maybe they’ll be married under a starlit snowy sky? Potential.
The cat has come to cuddle. Sweet end to a strange day. He loves to sit on my knees. I hate sleeping on my back, but for him, I could learn.