nimbus
I submitted to the school's literary magazine the other day. I'm not sure when we find out what made it in, and I'm a little nervous. Heres what I put in:
Static
Sometimes all she hears is the quiet desperation of her own thoughts. So many ideas pulling at her that she can't focus on a single coherent stream and everything becomes jumbled into an epic knot that can never be pulled apart. She is alone. She stands in a throng of people and only hears herself, her mind shifting and morphing. Outside noises bounce off the skin of her ears and back into space. There are no distractions from her solitude. Sometimes there is a hug with an empty promise, a sly look around the rim of a coffee mug, but still, she is alone, and all she can hear is the faint buzz that emanates from the air. Loneliness. Empty touches, no sound, only the slight ringing. She is not affected by the outside world, by relationships. All she can hear is that little voice that doesn't exist. She has her ideas, and nothing more.
Reflection
Dawn filters through her dusty window--she has forgotten to sleep again. So many things pulling at her that time has shortened. Hours and minutes no longer have the same measurement and instead she looks at her watch and everything is late. 6:37. Still typing, still thinking. There are too many other variables inserted into her life, too suddenly, and there is no management. Leisure has faded and now there are worries that she never thought she would have. Secrets have been thrust into her hands that carry such magnitude she is afraid of the repercussions. Actions carry more significance. Words become double edged swords. She cannot trust anymore, because everyone is listening for her mistakes. A knot in her stomach. Dusty reflections on her face and it is a new day. "If we had but world enough and time," she thinks. Marvell knew what the problem was. Time. The whole world in front of her, and she has lost her focus. No more time. No more sleep, no more dreams.
Now
She had a grand vision once. Plans for travel, love, and money. These dreams have fallen aside in lieu of pressing demands that require her concentration. Focus on the now instead of the future. Her visions are losing clarity, and the lines blur until the future is a haze of uncertainty. Now. She only sees the future in terms of days and weeks instead of years. So focused that the big picture is lost in the details. Focus. Find the imperfections in the grains and right them. She loses herself. A tiny dot that can't see the rest of the story. She is in a fog and can't push her way out. Find the beauty. Remember the dream.
Passion
She loves the feel of languages on her tongue. They drip off like honey, syrupy, coating her mouth with their unique sounds that produce coherent relationships. Pictures in words. Associations and color and beauty within lines across a paper. Letter roll around her mouth and pour out with sweetness that she can't find anywhere else. Combinations of sounds that result in so many wonderful events. A soft word in the ear that tickles as it enters the mind. An assertion of respect, with a firm handshake. A mother's babble to her newborn. Multifaceted, strange, and beautiful. She has a passion for the words she speaks, for the words she writes. Love. L O V E. Love.
Oh, and one of my papers in my film class last semester might get published in the Wagner Undergraduate Journal, which would be amazing for a resume. Oh, and this week is going to eat me alive. See you in pieces.
Static
Sometimes all she hears is the quiet desperation of her own thoughts. So many ideas pulling at her that she can't focus on a single coherent stream and everything becomes jumbled into an epic knot that can never be pulled apart. She is alone. She stands in a throng of people and only hears herself, her mind shifting and morphing. Outside noises bounce off the skin of her ears and back into space. There are no distractions from her solitude. Sometimes there is a hug with an empty promise, a sly look around the rim of a coffee mug, but still, she is alone, and all she can hear is the faint buzz that emanates from the air. Loneliness. Empty touches, no sound, only the slight ringing. She is not affected by the outside world, by relationships. All she can hear is that little voice that doesn't exist. She has her ideas, and nothing more.
Reflection
Dawn filters through her dusty window--she has forgotten to sleep again. So many things pulling at her that time has shortened. Hours and minutes no longer have the same measurement and instead she looks at her watch and everything is late. 6:37. Still typing, still thinking. There are too many other variables inserted into her life, too suddenly, and there is no management. Leisure has faded and now there are worries that she never thought she would have. Secrets have been thrust into her hands that carry such magnitude she is afraid of the repercussions. Actions carry more significance. Words become double edged swords. She cannot trust anymore, because everyone is listening for her mistakes. A knot in her stomach. Dusty reflections on her face and it is a new day. "If we had but world enough and time," she thinks. Marvell knew what the problem was. Time. The whole world in front of her, and she has lost her focus. No more time. No more sleep, no more dreams.
Now
She had a grand vision once. Plans for travel, love, and money. These dreams have fallen aside in lieu of pressing demands that require her concentration. Focus on the now instead of the future. Her visions are losing clarity, and the lines blur until the future is a haze of uncertainty. Now. She only sees the future in terms of days and weeks instead of years. So focused that the big picture is lost in the details. Focus. Find the imperfections in the grains and right them. She loses herself. A tiny dot that can't see the rest of the story. She is in a fog and can't push her way out. Find the beauty. Remember the dream.
Passion
She loves the feel of languages on her tongue. They drip off like honey, syrupy, coating her mouth with their unique sounds that produce coherent relationships. Pictures in words. Associations and color and beauty within lines across a paper. Letter roll around her mouth and pour out with sweetness that she can't find anywhere else. Combinations of sounds that result in so many wonderful events. A soft word in the ear that tickles as it enters the mind. An assertion of respect, with a firm handshake. A mother's babble to her newborn. Multifaceted, strange, and beautiful. She has a passion for the words she speaks, for the words she writes. Love. L O V E. Love.
Oh, and one of my papers in my film class last semester might get published in the Wagner Undergraduate Journal, which would be amazing for a resume. Oh, and this week is going to eat me alive. See you in pieces.