“That was good,” she said as she slid the essay in front of me, face down.
I flipped it over and saw an “A”.
I miss writing. I’m writing for English and for History, but it isn’t the same. I have topics and similes and a limit on the number of words I can use.
I miss creative writing. I miss grabbing my sharpies and scribbling on my white-walled blog. I miss journaling every night.
But there’s just no time.
Everything in me is just static and rage, chaos and confusion boiling over until I can’t breathe from the pressure. — journal entry, september 28.
My life feels like it’s a kaleidoscope, constantly changing scenes. One second it will be the blues and greens of the college, the plethora of comfortable chairs and the wide open windows. A quiet stillness in spite of the fact that I’m surrounded by people rushing and rushing to their next destination.
Then it shifts and I’m home, sitting on the bed in my room with school books spread out around me and ink stained fingertips from copying and recopying my notes. Evelyn snoring next to me. Sunlight streaming in at the curtains hanging over my windows. A mug of tea, long since gone cold, balanced on my knee.
Another change and I’m at work, singing and dancing and trying to pretend that I’m the sun, that I’m not so tired it hurts and that I’m not battling the increasingly-familiar elephant that likes to perch on my chest when life gets to be too much.
There are so many colors and so many patterns that it’s overwhelming. Everything is always in flux; nothing is ever stable. The colors and patterns blur and fade and rearrange with every breath and every step.
But I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.