100 words, 100 days

Saturday, May 7, 2016

{ interlude : it has been a very long time }

So.

I just found this blog today, again, after...two years or something of not remembering that it exists. That it existed, once.

The internet is a strange thing. Place. Thing. You can go back and quite literally find yourself standing in the text-speckled white space of your past, find words that your own fingers tapped out on some keyboard when you were eighteen and hopeful, when you were twenty and lost, when you were fifteen and stupid, when you were ageless and right. Right about so many things. And wrong, too.

This post is not going to be 100 words, by the way. The next one will.

Because I think I am going to start this again. This 100 words in 100 days thing. It's a lovely concept, one that I'm 98% sure I did not invent, although I can't for the life of me [cliche alert] remember where I came across it. Somewhere on the internets, no doubt. Where else do you find things these days. (Well. Books.)

Anyway, I left off on post 049, back in August of 2013...nearly three years ago. I am not going to write about this now--not go into the extent and depth of it--but I mean, so much has happened over the past three years. So much has changed. Me. I. I have changed. Really, everything has.

But I'm not going to go into that now. The whole point of this interlude-post-thing was to tell you, you, reader, person, human whose face I don't know, probably, that I'm going back and continuing this 100 words 100 days thing. Oh, and I'm starting at post number 050, where I left off last time. So really it's only fifty more days. But it'll still be 100 words. Yeah.

Because I really, really, really need to write again.

And this is the only answer I can find for right now.

So.

On y va.

Let's begin...now.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

049: perseids. (confessions.)

#1: when I’m looking at the stars I feel at once like I could never be alone in this universe and like I always will be alone, and have always been alone.

#2: the idea that some stars are dead and this “star” is no more than a shadow hurts me more than any romance.

#3: I can’t talk to you about stars because I’m afraid that you won’t care.

#4: sometimes I wonder how many millions of stars our ancestors knew that are obscured now by city lights.

#5: under the stars I remember that I believe in God.

048: askings again

are the songs stuck in my head there for a reason

do others hear the sounds my existence makes

(scrapings, rushings, breathings, the inevitable crashings into cupboards)

do they find me tiresome

restless

what are the coordinates of me

where I am

now

here—

in comparison to stars

to halley’s comet

(will I die before it returns)

(my child eyes couldn’t find it when my parents pointed “there!”)

what moments have I been here for

that in 2091 a girl will say

I wish I had been here for that

what wars remain to be seen

what losses

what hopes

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

047: reading English. / [or, I have to remember that tea will be a part of this. or else I might go insane.]

On the deck, wind steering the umbrella in sways, I’ve got my Oxford reading lists, and I’m trying to make my selections.

I can’t read everything, you know. I can read every spare minute, over breakfast, before bed. But there’s also life to consider.

My list includes Dickens, Hardy, three Brontës, Eliot, Browning, Tennyson, Carroll. In some sections I must choose between four books, all which sound flooring. And how much can I get through in what’s left of summer?

I stare at the tome that is Bleak House. Try to imagine myself finishing it in a week.

Literary enslavement.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

046: things I learned from an 11-hour shift

You cannot judge time. You cannot
bend it, extend it, break
it, escape it. Nothing about it is conducive
to human efforts.
Nothing.

A lot can happen
in five minutes. You can run
offstage and re-emerge
entirely different. Fifty
people can come and go without you
knowing. Your
insides can collapse.
Or rebuild.

Eyes communicate everything. (At
least…I live as
if they do.)

Whoever said people become
beautiful when they
smile was…right.

To be kept
from the sky is to be
kept from truth.

Reveal your pain and people
ask. Cover
it up and resentment
infects every wound
you have.