July 3, 2008
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Today is the first day in a while that I've actually written anything creative. I can't say yet if it's something worthwhile, but it was at least something. Today is also the first is a long time that I've tried to draw anything, and it didn't go absolutely miserably. I'm not good. I know this. But I have the potential to be good, if pushed, if inspired. I could learn to be good - there is hope for me yet.
I can't tell if I feel truly awake or still asleep. Maybe I'm in that state between awake and dreaming, where there are no real thoughts, just the blurred outline of ideas. Words float through my head as shapes or colours, not as stories, and trying to see them more clearly in my mind's eye is more effort than I really want to spend today. I never really know what's going to happen next anyways.
Why is the man in the grey suit arguing with the red-haired woman in the violet dress? I don't know. Why is the seventeen year old girl with raven coloured hair staring at the water, while she stands on the lip of the pier under storm filled skies? I couldn't say. What do you call that feeling that produces a stretched, itchy feeling in your arms, and speaks of steel wool? Why is the young boy with dark brown hair consumed by it, and where is he as he sits curled up in a ball, holding his legs to his chest in some forgotten corner?
Who is this child, this vivacious little girl who is swimming in the laundry fresh out of the dryer? When she surfaces for air, bubbling with pleasure at her strange adventure, I know that there is a stretch of white sheet still draped haphazardly over her head and across her shoulder. She might even be young enough to grab her toes, her legs stretched out in a 'V' in front of her. To look at her is to see golden curls of happiness peeking around her round face. But who is she, and what purpose does her life hold? I haven't a clue. I don't know what she was imagining. I know only that she was completely absorbed in her own little world, that the worries and cares that will inevitably burden her in later life are still at bay, and that she is the embodiment of childhood bliss.
I don't think any of these people are related. I don't think the Man in the Grey Suit lives in the same world as the Brown Haired Boy, and the little girl would be as foreign to them as the surface of Jupiter. So why, just now when I relax my thoughts, are all these people crowding in my mind, showing me pictures of their lives, but never explaining them or shedding light on who they are?
Maybe I am awake. Maybe they just wanted to say "Hello."
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