Old Writing
I wish I’d kept my journals from high school. I was embarassed by my “crappy” poetry and threw it all out, when I really could have re-read a lot of it to inspire myself for future writing. Pretty lame. Here’s something I found…my friend hannah and I both wrote these prose poems that ended up being the last page of our school’s literary magazine our junior year (we were both editors so it was pretty easy to get our own work in…haha). Her’s was a response to mine, though I’m not going to post her’s since it belongs to her and not me.
Disclaimer: It’s not very good. I was 16. wait, 17. 4 years ago. Whatever.
3 years agoI just want to grab people by the hands and scream, look. LOOK AT life! look at every gesture and every touch and every meaning that grasps us each so delicately! Every feeling, TAKE A MINUTE AND LOOK! Touch, touch, touch, and then rush. But life, look at what is, this is, is is is is! A whisper of fingers on your neck and then, nothing? Never! Can you reach out and touch every emotion and thought? No? Have you tried. Touch touch, feel, refeel, God there is meaning in meaning in meaning and life to be thought and rethought. See. Lying here and there, lying and talking, there underlying and metaphysical and pseudo and all that MEANING TO JUST GRAB….and let go and grab again! Can a ray of sun enter your soul and turn your mind to a light refraction of beauty and angelic presence? What kind of question is that? It’s a question. and it’s a thought. Isn’t your shadow right there, with you? And isn’t that a perfect reflection of you, horizontally? And aren’t you a vertical reflection of your horizontal reflection with life bouncing in between the two of you and it won’t really stop forever bouncing bouncing there’s life pulsing through every image you cast until the sun goes down and; there’s life bouncing through someone on the other side of the world! And thought, thought, think, look, just look. And after I grab and scream life in every inch second drop scent taste rhythm movement year love eye wind mark, every scribble of a pencil, to fall to the ground in tears of realization and self absorption that can’t be given, transferred, but love..love for it anyway.
