A memory I will cherish forever is the night I spent at Waynflete until 7:30. It was just me, the arts building, and the street lights. I watched AHS for a while, but then got to reading in a spot I would always read in during the day. In the day time, I would always read in the music room by the geometric window, because the sun always shone there in the winter time and I could bask in a 45 minute tropical vacation. But this time, I discovered that the same spot at night was bathed in moonlight, enough moonlight to read in. It wasn’t exactly tropical like it was in the morning, but it had a similar air of retreat. I could look at the city lights reflected in the bay, and watch the luminescent planes, aglow with foreign anticipation, land into Portland. The comfort I felt there at night was similar to the comfort I found there during the day, but a bit more nostalgic, more melancholy without the rays of light shining down through the panes. I sat there thinking for a long time, until I finally drifted off to sleep.
The adjectives in here are lovely. I really like how you contrasted what the place felt during the day versus at night. It's great how you say that this will stay in your memory forever - sometimes the little memories get lost, and I think remembering this one is nice.
Sometimes I get my panties in a twist when I get hit by the realization that time is a constant--no matter what we do, how well we do in school, or how much money we make, our time here is slipping away. At the moment this flash of panic hits, I am charged with incredible motivation and can often be found feverishly doing some sit-ups or searching furiously for my back pack so that I can start my homework. By the time I get to my chair to open my backpack, however, this motivation is gone. The potency and short-livedness of this terror astounds me every time. What is its source? Perhaps my midlife crisis is coming prematurely and in tiny blasts, like the little rain showers that precede the hurricane. Maybe I feel that I need to find, and embark on, my direction before it's too late. If only I could harness the power of these instantaneous flashes: I think it would solve our energy crisis. Or at least I might gt my college work done.
I hate peanut butter cups. Peanut butter is good, chocolate is good, but combined? Absolutely disgusting. The smell alone makes my stomach turn and gives me a headache. In my humble opinion, Reese's attempt to combine two radically different foods ended in utter failure. But as 90% of the world loves them, now there's mini peanut butter cups and milkshakes based off of them (those aren't too bad actually) and more ripoff products than I can count on both hands. They're seen as some sort of ultimate candy, when really they're just a sad, uncreative piece of barely edible crap, straight from the depths of hell. They're awful and they need to end.
I can't think straight. I can't stop feeling bad. I can't shake off the feeling of utter dread. A bomb has been dropped and it's shaking my world. It's happened to me again, and I can't quite tell if its my fault but there's a nagging voice in my head, and it is running its fingernails down a chalkboard as it tells me that I did this. That I'm the only one to blame for this, this repulsive action. This ugly affair. A gross abuse of relationships. Destitute. What a rotten sight I just want to tear down. What a horrible feeling sliding down my spine, pulling a numbing blanket over my body, as if it were stealing away my life. I really screwed up here, and it's all my fault again. Again, again, again, again, again, again; over and over and over until the words don't mean anything anymore. Like the taste in my mouth, the words are becoming disgusting and bland.
I would say I am a loud person. All of you know that. I can talk about anything for as long as you like, and when it comes to talking about myself; no issue at all. Talking is just talking. You apply a little pressure to vocal chords and make a shape with your mouth and some sounds come out. That's all talking is. However, when it comes to writing about myself, which I have been doing a lot lately, my fingers hover above the keyboard, indecisive and choosey. I make several different faces at the screen, analyzing it and trying to figure out why I cannot say what my favorite part of being a member of a community is, or why a personality quirk of mine is so unique and special (The honest answer? Its not. Im just weird.) or why a particular school is so important to me. If I am asked to vocalize it I say it how it is meant to sound. I try to put those words on a screen, and suddenly I am lost. They're the same words I said out loud, but they look dumb on paper. I change my writing over and over and over again, but apparently, "It doesn't sound like me." I wrote them, shouldn't it sound like something I would say?
To be honest, I am not sure that many people have something they really wish they could show the outside world, but perhaps that's just me. I don't go walking around with desperation, hoping "Oh man I wish this stranger I'm about to pass knew how smart I was" or "how athletic I am"... This is no way to be a conceited comment on my self-confidence or self-esteem, and there are absolutely things I wish for my friends and companions to know about me, but I think it much more powerful and authentic to simply let them become familiar with my multi-faceted nature as a byproduct of socializing.
I wish people knew about my dad; his state of being, his habits, old and new; how his face cringes when I enter the room; how he remains quiet while loud armies blab and spew empty rhetoric in his direction. I wish people knew about his 1,000 yard stair. He fought in no wars yet his face is blank, void of sadness and passion, just vacant space that is occasionally filled by spouts of heated, asinine rage that drives his wrinkled hands to bruise and batter his surroundings. I don’t want people to understand him, for his sake, my actions are selfish, I want him to be understood to justify my laziness; my difficulties with working; and my fear.
I wish people knew that I don't really like talking. At school I make a show of being loud, of voicing a random opinion, of talking to unexpected people and saying lots of unexpected things. But in reality I don't like to hear the sound of my own voice, or the sound of other peoples'. I prefer thinking, silently, or writing. There was a time in my life where this was evident about me because I wouldn't say two words to people at school, or I would purposely hide out where no one would find me, but now I don't do that anymore. I talk and join groups and try to be obnoxious because I am in the 12th grade, and maybe it's time for a change.
A memory I will cherish forever is the night I spent at Waynflete until 7:30. It was just me, the arts building, and the street lights. I watched AHS for a while, but then got to reading in a spot I would always read in during the day. In the day time, I would always read in the music room by the geometric window, because the sun always shone there in the winter time and I could bask in a 45 minute tropical vacation. But this time, I discovered that the same spot at night was bathed in moonlight, enough moonlight to read in. It wasn’t exactly tropical like it was in the morning, but it had a similar air of retreat. I could look at the city lights reflected in the bay, and watch the luminescent planes, aglow with foreign anticipation, land into Portland. The comfort I felt there at night was similar to the comfort I found there during the day, but a bit more nostalgic, more melancholy without the rays of light shining down through the panes. I sat there thinking for a long time, until I finally drifted off to sleep.
ReplyDeleteThe adjectives in here are lovely. I really like how you contrasted what the place felt during the day versus at night. It's great how you say that this will stay in your memory forever - sometimes the little memories get lost, and I think remembering this one is nice.
DeleteSometimes I get my panties in a twist when I get hit by the realization that time is a constant--no matter what we do, how well we do in school, or how much money we make, our time here is slipping away. At the moment this flash of panic hits, I am charged with incredible motivation and can often be found feverishly doing some sit-ups or searching furiously for my back pack so that I can start my homework. By the time I get to my chair to open my backpack, however, this motivation is gone. The potency and short-livedness of this terror astounds me every time. What is its source? Perhaps my midlife crisis is coming prematurely and in tiny blasts, like the little rain showers that precede the hurricane. Maybe I feel that I need to find, and embark on, my direction before it's too late. If only I could harness the power of these instantaneous flashes: I think it would solve our energy crisis. Or at least I might gt my college work done.
ReplyDeleteI hate peanut butter cups. Peanut butter is good, chocolate is good, but combined? Absolutely disgusting. The smell alone makes my stomach turn and gives me a headache. In my humble opinion, Reese's attempt to combine two radically different foods ended in utter failure. But as 90% of the world loves them, now there's mini peanut butter cups and milkshakes based off of them (those aren't too bad actually) and more ripoff products than I can count on both hands. They're seen as some sort of ultimate candy, when really they're just a sad, uncreative piece of barely edible crap, straight from the depths of hell. They're awful and they need to end.
ReplyDeleteI can't think straight. I can't stop feeling bad. I can't shake off the feeling of utter dread. A bomb has been dropped and it's shaking my world. It's happened to me again, and I can't quite tell if its my fault but there's a nagging voice in my head, and it is running its fingernails down a chalkboard as it tells me that I did this. That I'm the only one to blame for this, this repulsive action. This ugly affair. A gross abuse of relationships. Destitute. What a rotten sight I just want to tear down. What a horrible feeling sliding down my spine, pulling a numbing blanket over my body, as if it were stealing away my life. I really screwed up here, and it's all my fault again. Again, again, again, again, again, again; over and over and over until the words don't mean anything anymore. Like the taste in my mouth, the words are becoming disgusting and bland.
ReplyDeleteI would say I am a loud person. All of you know that. I can talk about anything for as long as you like, and when it comes to talking about myself; no issue at all. Talking is just talking. You apply a little pressure to vocal chords and make a shape with your mouth and some sounds come out. That's all talking is. However, when it comes to writing about myself, which I have been doing a lot lately, my fingers hover above the keyboard, indecisive and choosey. I make several different faces at the screen, analyzing it and trying to figure out why I cannot say what my favorite part of being a member of a community is, or why a personality quirk of mine is so unique and special (The honest answer? Its not. Im just weird.) or why a particular school is so important to me. If I am asked to vocalize it I say it how it is meant to sound. I try to put those words on a screen, and suddenly I am lost. They're the same words I said out loud, but they look dumb on paper. I change my writing over and over and over again, but apparently, "It doesn't sound like me." I wrote them, shouldn't it sound like something I would say?
ReplyDeleteTo be honest, I am not sure that many people have something they really wish they could show the outside world, but perhaps that's just me. I don't go walking around with desperation, hoping "Oh man I wish this stranger I'm about to pass knew how smart I was" or "how athletic I am"... This is no way to be a conceited comment on my self-confidence or self-esteem, and there are absolutely things I wish for my friends and companions to know about me, but I think it much more powerful and authentic to simply let them become familiar with my multi-faceted nature as a byproduct of socializing.
ReplyDeleteI wish people knew about my dad; his state of being, his habits, old and new; how his face cringes when I enter the room; how he remains quiet while loud armies blab and spew empty rhetoric in his direction. I wish people knew about his 1,000 yard stair. He fought in no wars yet his face is blank, void of sadness and passion, just vacant space that is occasionally filled by spouts of heated, asinine rage that drives his wrinkled hands to bruise and batter his surroundings. I don’t want people to understand him, for his sake, my actions are selfish, I want him to be understood to justify my laziness; my difficulties with working; and my fear.
ReplyDeleteI wish people knew that I don't really like talking. At school I make a show of being loud, of voicing a random opinion, of talking to unexpected people and saying lots of unexpected things. But in reality I don't like to hear the sound of my own voice, or the sound of other peoples'. I prefer thinking, silently, or writing. There was a time in my life where this was evident about me because I wouldn't say two words to people at school, or I would purposely hide out where no one would find me, but now I don't do that anymore. I talk and join groups and try to be obnoxious because I am in the 12th grade, and maybe it's time for a change.
ReplyDelete