Spring is the most beautiful purgatory I know. This is what she has given me :
The choice to shop for experiences, and the result of getting yelled at because I choose to spend all of my time shopping for experiences.
Spring has given me the fear of an eternity of rainstorms that make me shiver, and bruises on my right shoulder and left shin. I can stretch a diagonal line from bruise A to bruise B.
I used to write all of my dreams down, but when my phone broke some far away time ago I lost hundreds of my dreams. If I try hard enough I can remember the frayed ends and scribbled margins of my dreams, but I am upset that those dreams will never come back to me. I am too discouraged and apathetic to start writing them again.
I did not know depression until I knew Sunday.
Why are Sundays so depressing?
Nobody attends class that often anymore because it is our second semester of senior year so we roam the hallways and laugh and play and dance and sing and yell and scream at each other and cry but it’s okay because then we just keep on playing.
Comparatively is a word I often use, but I do not know what comparative literature as a major is. What do you compare that is no different from a standard English literature course? Is literature not constantly being compared?
I have ideas, maybe even sentences boiling in the pot that is my brain. As I ride the train the pot is filling up with the fervor of reading a book of essays that contain little philosophies you subscribe to.
I try to recover from the mysterious illness that had been plaguing my head on and off for the past 2 months. I take really deep inhales and cough up globs of phlegm but I cannot swallow them because that will make my mysterious illness worse so I cry.
I have grown increasingly tired of being talked down to, and sometimes it seems much easier to pretend to be small. But with pretending to be small I invite myself into the demeaning gaze of man. Like the condescending nicety of a man extending his arm anticipating you to fall when the subway makes an abrupt screeching halt, but you are holding the pole, you can support your own weight. There is no need to gingerly provide your palm as a safety net for my shoulder, I am holding the pole. I will not fall.
I bite down on my taste buds because I heard you can’t remove them unless they burn off so I bite down on the tip of my tongue until a cluster of my taste buds are swollen and raised. But my taste buds are not budging.
I look at a half-typed sentence in my notes app, probably a witty observation but because that train of thought has come and gone and the sentence stares at me unfinished in the notes app, I am dissatisfied and disappointed.
I saw a YouTube video last night on how “Our Obsession With Beauty is Dystopian” but I did not click it because I know it will make me sad.
Anyways,
I stared at my face in the oval-shaped Sephora mirror and noticed that my eyebrows are starting to become unruly, and I note all of the prominent dark marks on my face from where I’ve picked my skin and all of the spots on my hairline I probably got from my hairspray suffocating my hair follicles.
I have decided that I want to purchase a pair of wayfarers because I read the new Bret Easton Ellis. I swear he mentions it multiple times in almost every novel of his.
I cannot write naturalistic dialogue without sounding stiff and calculated, which is strange because my prose tends to be full of digressions. My screenwriting dreams came as fast as they went.
I am a girl staring at my dimly lit phone in a candlelit bubble bath.
I used to be friends with a boy who took words I wrote and published them as his own. I do not think we stopped being friends because he stole my words, as I did not come to find out my words were stolen until very recently. I still have the notes, those words on my phone.
When I was a child I used to steal sugar packets from restaurant tables and slip them in between the pages of my books because I thought they harbored secrets, or I would whisper my own secrets in them so the sugar crystals would keep them safe for me. I wonder how many sugar packets are hidden on my bookshelf. I found one in a Judy Blume novel a while ago, and I poured it into my mouth.
I wonder which sugary protected secret I swallowed.
Exactly one month ago I sat on my friend’s couch, and we peeled grapefruits the wrong way, cutting them straight down the middle and peeling the slices surgically to acquire the raw meat. We listened to Bob Dylan as we peeled our grapefruits. The simple pleasures in life when you aren’t thinking about nonexistence.
But I digress.