We move about our ingenious lives, the creation of some form of genetics, or something more, living as we do and do as we please. Life goes on around us, and we buzz about in our own, taking care of only ourselves. We ignore the cries of those who see truths, we brush them off and go about the daily routines. Sleep, work, eat, sleep, work, eat, then we sleep again. Within these events I find myself. I find myself counting the hours until I wake from dreamless sleep once more, to repeat the tedious events of the days gone by. I have fallen into the oceans of society and the looming years of adulthood, and I have become stuck in these doldrums, floating along in the shallow seas among the spineless and brainless, with only few exceptions. Days and weeks pass without my notice as the spice of life is drowned out by the overflowof salty seas. I have spoken to no one, my loved ones are slipping farther from me, and I cannot bring myself to care as I float out of sight from them. My colors are fading away.
Once upon an uneventful night, I sat alone in my room, gray and uninteresting. I am now single, my boyfriend finds me not the girl he once knew, full of life and witty remarks. I console my loss without tears, and with a certain video called "The Evolution of Dance". My cat is sitting in my lap, tickling my feet with her tail, inhibiting my ability to type. with her body. She is only a cat, and I, her human. There is humor in that I find. I leave with my feline companion to eat the same mash of food I eat every night: Microwave dinners. I made a mental note to change my eating habits. I have yet to uphold them. I sit down, she returns to my lap and we watch Japanese game shows. A sudden ping from my computer draws me back t my cave I call a room. My friend Erin has sent me a message. Slow down, take a moment, look around. Have you noticed how fast they all fall down? I read these words just as Erin writes more lines. The few sentences evolves into a poem. I roll the words around in my mouth, repeating lines, thinking. Color seems to bleed from the screen, and I am finally opening my eyes again.
Days pass without hurry. I sit on my front porch with my friend, my sister in a way. We even look alike, I've heard it said, good enough to be sisters. We watch as the frail branches of the willows dance upon the wind, sway like water in the gale. It's summer. The sun is warm on my back, the grass cool beneath my feet. Erin and I climb into the tops of the willows, connecting with the world. We talk about nothing for hours on end, and we talk about the sky. We talk about the trees and the sun, the way cats move through grass and the way horses run. We talk about trips we will never take, and the trip to Tahoe we will be taking in July. We are excited, and can't wait to return to the A-frame cabin and climb Eagle Rock and dangle out legs off of the private docks where we have carved our names in the wood for two summers. The mosquitoes are biting now, and we drop out of the tree and go inside. We sit inside for a few hours, putting on a play of typical teenagers on a Saturday night, waiting for my parents to fall under that spell of sleep. We then remove ourselves from the paternal eye, and out to the pasture. My horses greet us in silence, and we continue our philosophical squabbling under the light of the moon. We talk of ghosts and goblins, how DaVinci intended to fly, where we are in the universe, how we as a whole species have fallen out of touch with the green of the world. We float along in our thoughts while the world swims by in a rush. The night crawls along at a steady pace for us. It's been two days since the poem, and the world is magnificent.
School returns once again, and the months have dragged on like a snail in winter. Our heavy schedules prevent Erin and I from speaking as much as we would like to, but there is nothing we can do about it. The starry nights of Tahoe and the bliss of a cool summer is only a memory now as we cram into packed classrooms. The doldrums of the oceans have returned, taking my new-found boat with it. Life is gray again, and I sit in English, finding my one escape from this average life. I draw. Drawing has become my one passion in life, it walks hand in hand with music. My pencils are no longer tools, but they are my partners. Songs are not just passing noise now, the words have meaning, voices have emotions and music has meaning. I am whole, but only halfway. I'm not all here, but not completely gone. We read Emerson. I do not listen, but I do. The words lodge in my brain and open this transparent eyeball. I return home, bent on the night's work. I read Emerson, and devour him quickly. I discover Whitman, and devour him as well. Twain has a different taste, but he is still nourishment to my tired mind. My eyes half-closed, I open my computer and forward they essays to Erin. A rhyme and reason to our thinking has been already transcribed into the books of high school students who will never "get it". It is a way of confirming ourselves. We rejoice over the phone.
We find comfort in these writers, the Transcendentalists of another era. They have filled in our lines, creating us anew. We are inspired beings, writing books that will never be published. Our ideas combine, we draw, we capture moments in time. We hope they have deeper meaning than what others see. We are still alive in foreign matters, of this world or otherwise, and we are wise beyond our years while still being under legal drinking age. Our lives are creeping up on us at a fast pace, and we will have to grow up sooner or later, because we wasted all our free time alone. We have promised to retain our youth, if not in mind then spirit. We will pass our thinkings down, like the poets before us. We will step out of the blue shallows and onto the unexplored islands. Emerson has forged the trails, Whitman will guide us down it, Twain will fill our hunger for the unreal life. I will catch up and lead the way into this painted landscape. The hues are here in subtle tones, and they will appear with the ebb and flow of inspiration and creation. In time, we will become the artists, the writers, the authors of a new generation. We will be the poets of the urban wilderness, we will be the future.
Once upon an uneventful night, I sat alone in my room, gray and uninteresting. I am now single, my boyfriend finds me not the girl he once knew, full of life and witty remarks. I console my loss without tears, and with a certain video called "The Evolution of Dance". My cat is sitting in my lap, tickling my feet with her tail, inhibiting my ability to type. with her body. She is only a cat, and I, her human. There is humor in that I find. I leave with my feline companion to eat the same mash of food I eat every night: Microwave dinners. I made a mental note to change my eating habits. I have yet to uphold them. I sit down, she returns to my lap and we watch Japanese game shows. A sudden ping from my computer draws me back t my cave I call a room. My friend Erin has sent me a message. Slow down, take a moment, look around. Have you noticed how fast they all fall down? I read these words just as Erin writes more lines. The few sentences evolves into a poem. I roll the words around in my mouth, repeating lines, thinking. Color seems to bleed from the screen, and I am finally opening my eyes again.
Days pass without hurry. I sit on my front porch with my friend, my sister in a way. We even look alike, I've heard it said, good enough to be sisters. We watch as the frail branches of the willows dance upon the wind, sway like water in the gale. It's summer. The sun is warm on my back, the grass cool beneath my feet. Erin and I climb into the tops of the willows, connecting with the world. We talk about nothing for hours on end, and we talk about the sky. We talk about the trees and the sun, the way cats move through grass and the way horses run. We talk about trips we will never take, and the trip to Tahoe we will be taking in July. We are excited, and can't wait to return to the A-frame cabin and climb Eagle Rock and dangle out legs off of the private docks where we have carved our names in the wood for two summers. The mosquitoes are biting now, and we drop out of the tree and go inside. We sit inside for a few hours, putting on a play of typical teenagers on a Saturday night, waiting for my parents to fall under that spell of sleep. We then remove ourselves from the paternal eye, and out to the pasture. My horses greet us in silence, and we continue our philosophical squabbling under the light of the moon. We talk of ghosts and goblins, how DaVinci intended to fly, where we are in the universe, how we as a whole species have fallen out of touch with the green of the world. We float along in our thoughts while the world swims by in a rush. The night crawls along at a steady pace for us. It's been two days since the poem, and the world is magnificent.
School returns once again, and the months have dragged on like a snail in winter. Our heavy schedules prevent Erin and I from speaking as much as we would like to, but there is nothing we can do about it. The starry nights of Tahoe and the bliss of a cool summer is only a memory now as we cram into packed classrooms. The doldrums of the oceans have returned, taking my new-found boat with it. Life is gray again, and I sit in English, finding my one escape from this average life. I draw. Drawing has become my one passion in life, it walks hand in hand with music. My pencils are no longer tools, but they are my partners. Songs are not just passing noise now, the words have meaning, voices have emotions and music has meaning. I am whole, but only halfway. I'm not all here, but not completely gone. We read Emerson. I do not listen, but I do. The words lodge in my brain and open this transparent eyeball. I return home, bent on the night's work. I read Emerson, and devour him quickly. I discover Whitman, and devour him as well. Twain has a different taste, but he is still nourishment to my tired mind. My eyes half-closed, I open my computer and forward they essays to Erin. A rhyme and reason to our thinking has been already transcribed into the books of high school students who will never "get it". It is a way of confirming ourselves. We rejoice over the phone.
We find comfort in these writers, the Transcendentalists of another era. They have filled in our lines, creating us anew. We are inspired beings, writing books that will never be published. Our ideas combine, we draw, we capture moments in time. We hope they have deeper meaning than what others see. We are still alive in foreign matters, of this world or otherwise, and we are wise beyond our years while still being under legal drinking age. Our lives are creeping up on us at a fast pace, and we will have to grow up sooner or later, because we wasted all our free time alone. We have promised to retain our youth, if not in mind then spirit. We will pass our thinkings down, like the poets before us. We will step out of the blue shallows and onto the unexplored islands. Emerson has forged the trails, Whitman will guide us down it, Twain will fill our hunger for the unreal life. I will catch up and lead the way into this painted landscape. The hues are here in subtle tones, and they will appear with the ebb and flow of inspiration and creation. In time, we will become the artists, the writers, the authors of a new generation. We will be the poets of the urban wilderness, we will be the future.
