What does it mean to you? For me, it's something I just do.
I've been wanting to write for the last week. There are so many things I want to say, so many moments that I’ve written down on the palm of my hand in hopes of remembering to write here.
But… I don’t.
My sister is up in New Paltz with me. After a broken perfume bottle, a drunk camera and tears we went off to chill for the first time in months. It was very much needed. She’s sleeping in the bed that’s out in the common room, while I am in my room, eating a mango Tootsie pop. It’s pretty good, actually (everyone should go and get one), and as I eat that I’m finishing a portfolio for my Creative Writing class.
And so begins the snippets of information that I remember.
The other day, I was sitting on a bench in front of College Hall, and it was perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever had a moment like I did then. I’m sitting, pens in my hair and in my hand, scribbling out couplets and listening to a single song from Jewel (“Don’t”) over a over, and the leaves are just falling out of the trees around me. They hit my shoulder, the back of my neck, my knees… And a second’s thought will think… Wow, I can’t believe I’m in New Jersey, but then I remember. I’m not in New Jersey.
About a week ago, I was walking down main street around midnight, smoking one of my cigarettes (a new brand… American Spirit. Not sure if I like it, really) and not set on going anywhere in particular. I see a church on the other side, one of many, but this one makes me cross the street. I go up to it and I stand just slightly to the side of it, smoking and listening to one song (what is it with me and one song?). Once I leave it, I go to a coffee house down the way and, since I accidentally left all of my notebooks back at the dorm, I start writing on cup holders left by the people who sat in the plaid chair before me.
… I think I want to start writing artificially for a little while. Everything sounds cooler when you only write down pieces of the night. Like that church paragraph.
A week ago, I was walking listlessly, inhaling nicotine and hating it, when I saw my previous religion, a beacon of idyllic charm and muted color. I stand in God’s right hand, listening to bitter melodies and remembering. I blinked, and I was sitting in a vintage chair, plucking cup holders from discarded cups and scribbling my thoughts onto the recycled cardboard.
…. Look at that. I wrote less and took more time doing so. But hey, it makes me sound interesting.
Or fake? Like I wanted?
But… I don’t.
My sister is up in New Paltz with me. After a broken perfume bottle, a drunk camera and tears we went off to chill for the first time in months. It was very much needed. She’s sleeping in the bed that’s out in the common room, while I am in my room, eating a mango Tootsie pop. It’s pretty good, actually (everyone should go and get one), and as I eat that I’m finishing a portfolio for my Creative Writing class.
And so begins the snippets of information that I remember.
The other day, I was sitting on a bench in front of College Hall, and it was perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever had a moment like I did then. I’m sitting, pens in my hair and in my hand, scribbling out couplets and listening to a single song from Jewel (“Don’t”) over a over, and the leaves are just falling out of the trees around me. They hit my shoulder, the back of my neck, my knees… And a second’s thought will think… Wow, I can’t believe I’m in New Jersey, but then I remember. I’m not in New Jersey.
About a week ago, I was walking down main street around midnight, smoking one of my cigarettes (a new brand… American Spirit. Not sure if I like it, really) and not set on going anywhere in particular. I see a church on the other side, one of many, but this one makes me cross the street. I go up to it and I stand just slightly to the side of it, smoking and listening to one song (what is it with me and one song?). Once I leave it, I go to a coffee house down the way and, since I accidentally left all of my notebooks back at the dorm, I start writing on cup holders left by the people who sat in the plaid chair before me.
… I think I want to start writing artificially for a little while. Everything sounds cooler when you only write down pieces of the night. Like that church paragraph.
A week ago, I was walking listlessly, inhaling nicotine and hating it, when I saw my previous religion, a beacon of idyllic charm and muted color. I stand in God’s right hand, listening to bitter melodies and remembering. I blinked, and I was sitting in a vintage chair, plucking cup holders from discarded cups and scribbling my thoughts onto the recycled cardboard.
…. Look at that. I wrote less and took more time doing so. But hey, it makes me sound interesting.
Or fake? Like I wanted?