Simplicity
This weekend I went to Lindsey's for the first time in two months, thanks to the busyness of part-time jobs, finals week, accompanying end-of-semester projects, and attending separate institutions. College to me is like an electric wire fence when it comes to my friendships - we can see each other through the divide, we're so close and right there, so near and only minutes apart. But we can't cross, lest we sizzle into foul-smelling burnt oh-god-now-I-have-a-D-in-Statistics-kill-me-now- corpses.
So it was like filling my lungs with air after a dive underwater to be physically with Lindsey again on Friday. I'm a constant puzzlement to myself because I'm perfectly fine being alone, for quite long stretches of time, but then very suddenly not fine with my aloneness. I can read or write or play a game all day, very happily. But loneliness still creeps up my spine. Sometimes within hours, more often days, and it crawls tight down my throat and settles heavy in my heart, and eventually I just need that companionship, desperately.
The simple things make me happiest. Lindsey and I took hotdogs, speared them on sticks, and roasted them over her open-fire stove. They crackled and popped over flames that blossomed in a ring of azure petals. We sang silly nostalgic Backstreet Boys songs under our breath as they cooked. Lindsey let me see the newborn calf, born just 24-hours previous. The little guy was still standing on wobbly hooves and had the softest black and white hair. His mama Cocoa was very protective, always standing close. Not so protective that she didn't appreciate a wheat bun to munch, though - cow tongues feel so strange and wet! (The greatest part of a best friend who lives on a farm is being able to pet all the baby chickens and sheep and rabbits and horses and cows - and the abundance of free completely organic eggs ;) ) Later that night, Lindsey really wanted to paint my nails. I don't have the motivation to do them myself, but plenty of patience for it, so I told her yes and she ran off to get her nail polish. It's a new passion of hers, thus the excitement. As she worked we watched Miyazaki's Spirited Away, which inspired her to tear strips from a Chinese newspaper and - using some rubbing alcohol, I believe - pressed them to bleed kanji onto the cherry-blossom pink canvas of my nails. It turned out really lovely.
Now that summer is here I'm looking forward to getting to spend time with all of my friends more often. <3 And hopefully to writing. No, not hopefully. I'm determined to write. I used to write like I'd be burned alive if I didn't when I was a teenager. It was a need, a necessity of life, just as important as air. I breathed and slept words, lost in daydream after daydream I plotted into intricate outlines which then became (self-indulgent, poorly written) novels. But every word was making my writing better, no matter how self-indulgent or crappy I think those stories are now. 21-years-old isn't far off from teen years, I realize, but I haven't written seriously since I was 16. Not for myself. Not longer, original works. There's a lot of reasons why, some legitimate, most just excuses. If I truly want to be a writer then writing for school isn't enough, I have to write for myself again - for my own passions and feelings and longing to learn and relearn and express my Self, to communicate in a world I'm often too shy to speak to in person.
So, here's to a summer of new beginnings. <3
(and trying to find what voice I want to use for these blogs it's a weird mix of chat-informal narrative-formal right now =O)
So it was like filling my lungs with air after a dive underwater to be physically with Lindsey again on Friday. I'm a constant puzzlement to myself because I'm perfectly fine being alone, for quite long stretches of time, but then very suddenly not fine with my aloneness. I can read or write or play a game all day, very happily. But loneliness still creeps up my spine. Sometimes within hours, more often days, and it crawls tight down my throat and settles heavy in my heart, and eventually I just need that companionship, desperately.
The simple things make me happiest. Lindsey and I took hotdogs, speared them on sticks, and roasted them over her open-fire stove. They crackled and popped over flames that blossomed in a ring of azure petals. We sang silly nostalgic Backstreet Boys songs under our breath as they cooked. Lindsey let me see the newborn calf, born just 24-hours previous. The little guy was still standing on wobbly hooves and had the softest black and white hair. His mama Cocoa was very protective, always standing close. Not so protective that she didn't appreciate a wheat bun to munch, though - cow tongues feel so strange and wet! (The greatest part of a best friend who lives on a farm is being able to pet all the baby chickens and sheep and rabbits and horses and cows - and the abundance of free completely organic eggs ;) ) Later that night, Lindsey really wanted to paint my nails. I don't have the motivation to do them myself, but plenty of patience for it, so I told her yes and she ran off to get her nail polish. It's a new passion of hers, thus the excitement. As she worked we watched Miyazaki's Spirited Away, which inspired her to tear strips from a Chinese newspaper and - using some rubbing alcohol, I believe - pressed them to bleed kanji onto the cherry-blossom pink canvas of my nails. It turned out really lovely.
Now that summer is here I'm looking forward to getting to spend time with all of my friends more often. <3 And hopefully to writing. No, not hopefully. I'm determined to write. I used to write like I'd be burned alive if I didn't when I was a teenager. It was a need, a necessity of life, just as important as air. I breathed and slept words, lost in daydream after daydream I plotted into intricate outlines which then became (self-indulgent, poorly written) novels. But every word was making my writing better, no matter how self-indulgent or crappy I think those stories are now. 21-years-old isn't far off from teen years, I realize, but I haven't written seriously since I was 16. Not for myself. Not longer, original works. There's a lot of reasons why, some legitimate, most just excuses. If I truly want to be a writer then writing for school isn't enough, I have to write for myself again - for my own passions and feelings and longing to learn and relearn and express my Self, to communicate in a world I'm often too shy to speak to in person.
So, here's to a summer of new beginnings. <3
(and trying to find what voice I want to use for these blogs it's a weird mix of chat-informal narrative-formal right now =O)