Peace.
So. I wrote this poem and even though most of you have already read it, I figured: what the heck, might as well post it.
Peace
Wandering through the evergreens, looking for a white flash – of inspiration, perhaps?
Although the trees choose not to speak, their calm is not what I need.
I could rest on their broad backs for days and not feel stable enough to stand.
No, my search must be fulfilled through another means, one that is fleeting.
I hear the call, and realize I am close.
I look towards the partially hidden sky, its soft skin revealed through the fan of branches.
Beautiful, but the clouds cannot coo so delicately.
And then, wonderful eyesight! I see her perfectly perched on a low branch.
Within reach, I creep forward, but wait.
Would she survive if I managed to catch her, to cage her?
Or would she flee me through death, unused to being a captive?
Yet my pondering is unneeded, for the dear dove has decided to ascend,
A distant vapor which few have caught and less have kept.
Swings.
As I’ve told many of my friends, I wish I could spend the rest of my life on a swing in the middle of a park.
I would watch the children chasing on the playground, the lonely old ladies walking their poodles, the couples strolling to nowhere in particular. I would constantly feel the rush of the wind as it tickles my exposed toes, brushes against my grinning face, and weaves through my tangled hair. I would sing to the abrasive, squeaking rhythm of the rusty metal as it strains against my oh so enormous weight. I would go high, so high that I am airborne for the slightest of seconds and every descent is a shock to my system as I hit the swing once again. I would contemplate jumping off every so often, but then would realize that there is nothing out in the world that I really desire more than to live as an observer, a neutral body in our conflict-based world. I wouldn’t need food, wouldn’t need sleep. All I would run on is the air, the trees, the night, the clouds. My thoughts.
I would forever be young, in idealistic spirit and vigorous physicalilty. In fact, I wouldn’t mind being younger in spirit than I am now, since I am only a common example of our generation’s premature apathy and world-weariness. Forget Peter Pan and his adventures, my eternal youth would be perfectly content with quiet introspection and innocence.
Yes, this is all escapism nonsense. But it is where I thrive.
“Oh I am a dreamer, but I’ll deny it ’til the day I die.” – Brooke Waggoner
Best quote from the first day of work:
Technically my second, but still.
From one of the many guys who I met, but whose name I cannot remember:
“You’re going to love this job. Love it. It’s going to make you want to get an education so you don’t have to do this for the rest of your life.”
In other news, Michael said that I should write more on my blog. I am honored that someone actually cares/ is interested enough about what I write to tell me this. Although it’s probably because reading blogs is one of the most entertaining ways to procrastinate. But so is writing them, which is why I’m here.
Today I was having a discussion with Hillary about how much I want to get out, move away, leave. I’m like a walking advertisement for Southwest Airlines. Hillary concluded, “So, you have senoritis?” Well, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about. So there I was/here I am, trying to explain, but fumbling like a freshman playing football. It seems to be the story of my life: How can I explain when I myself have no idea?
It’s just a funk. A haze. A tar pit trap.
Sometimes I am a person of extremes. (This statement in itself doesn’t make sense. “Sometimes” isn’t exactly an extreme word…) And so, being in this funk has made me want to do two things:
1. Crawl into a fetal position in my boring bedroom and never come out.
2. Go out, running, deep into a forest and letting all my soul escape as a ghost, departing through my lungs, ripping through my throat as I howl, becoming one of the lonely wolves, a shadow.
Unfortunately, I can do neither.
