(no subject)
Please take no notice of the chunk of writing below. It's a long story, but basically, to hand in stuff that I've typed for school I have to put in in LJ first.
Two people of questionable gender, double beings of not-so-female obesity and age. A third gender - youth lost?
I try not to reprimand myself so much when writing these illegal, pervasive sketches; it’s hard on my writing and hard on my brain. (Are they mutually exclusive?) I watch people while people don’t watch me. I draw them, I write about them. Sometimes they become an English paper (B for effort, ease off on the summarization) and sometimes they become fake novellas or vignettes in which I beat on myself until I can’t write at all and become so angry, so frustrated because I know I’m a being of waste.
These beings are women of loss. My viewpoint is hardly favourable, but sometimes that’s the best part.
I see machine stitches in bright, spring-coloured hems. Things you buy in bulk at Wal-Mart that have no discernible shape or purpose but to serve as a sad (yet using it’s neon colours to pass for happy) sort of bag to hide in, located shamefully close to the maternity section. Closer than you’ll ever admit and closer than you’ll care to remember.
There are long, yellowing fingernails which caress long, yellowing cigarettes. How many times have you tried to quit? How many times have you stared into the ash-tray, just watching the grey flakes fall and wondering if he’ll come back?
Hair unwashed. It’s the colour of those lonely grey flakes and the shape of them too. Limp and too short to be called long but too long to be called short. There is an indentation; a flat, continuous hairline that traces the back of your scalp. You sleep like that. You sleep with your head like that, just there. Judging from the shape of this roadmap hairline you rest your head on small, stiff pillows. You know, those annoying ravioli shaped excuses for pillows where you have to pile three on top of each other to reach minimum comfort. Maybe you made them yourself. Maybe you just sleep on a couch.
You speak animatedly with your friend in-between long periods of silence. You stare into the sun and you shift your legs. You’re symmetrical to the foggy, mountainous horizon. I can’t see what you’re drinking but it’s not coffee.
Are you happy? How did you get to where you are? What were you like in high school? What are you afraid of? What will you be remembered for? Have you ever been on one of those news reports? You know, when they’re talking about weight and they show footage of obese people walking and sun bathing and holding their children’s hands, but never showing their faces - anonymous rear ends that serve their duty to their country by showing everyone else what they don’t want to be.
It’s then when I realize projection is a horrifically normal, human thing to do.
I still haven't uploaded those pictures, but I will.
My birthday is in two days. I'm really excited. :] Especially for the day after that.
I should probably sleep.
Two people of questionable gender, double beings of not-so-female obesity and age. A third gender - youth lost?
I try not to reprimand myself so much when writing these illegal, pervasive sketches; it’s hard on my writing and hard on my brain. (Are they mutually exclusive?) I watch people while people don’t watch me. I draw them, I write about them. Sometimes they become an English paper (B for effort, ease off on the summarization) and sometimes they become fake novellas or vignettes in which I beat on myself until I can’t write at all and become so angry, so frustrated because I know I’m a being of waste.
These beings are women of loss. My viewpoint is hardly favourable, but sometimes that’s the best part.
I see machine stitches in bright, spring-coloured hems. Things you buy in bulk at Wal-Mart that have no discernible shape or purpose but to serve as a sad (yet using it’s neon colours to pass for happy) sort of bag to hide in, located shamefully close to the maternity section. Closer than you’ll ever admit and closer than you’ll care to remember.
There are long, yellowing fingernails which caress long, yellowing cigarettes. How many times have you tried to quit? How many times have you stared into the ash-tray, just watching the grey flakes fall and wondering if he’ll come back?
Hair unwashed. It’s the colour of those lonely grey flakes and the shape of them too. Limp and too short to be called long but too long to be called short. There is an indentation; a flat, continuous hairline that traces the back of your scalp. You sleep like that. You sleep with your head like that, just there. Judging from the shape of this roadmap hairline you rest your head on small, stiff pillows. You know, those annoying ravioli shaped excuses for pillows where you have to pile three on top of each other to reach minimum comfort. Maybe you made them yourself. Maybe you just sleep on a couch.
You speak animatedly with your friend in-between long periods of silence. You stare into the sun and you shift your legs. You’re symmetrical to the foggy, mountainous horizon. I can’t see what you’re drinking but it’s not coffee.
Are you happy? How did you get to where you are? What were you like in high school? What are you afraid of? What will you be remembered for? Have you ever been on one of those news reports? You know, when they’re talking about weight and they show footage of obese people walking and sun bathing and holding their children’s hands, but never showing their faces - anonymous rear ends that serve their duty to their country by showing everyone else what they don’t want to be.
It’s then when I realize projection is a horrifically normal, human thing to do.
I still haven't uploaded those pictures, but I will.
My birthday is in two days. I'm really excited. :] Especially for the day after that.
I should probably sleep.