Friday, November 30

it is happening

When the class I'm sitting in is lasting too long, and I feel hot and stuffy inside a room with nineteen other students, when the teacher's words are just a faint hum, and my eyes sting it is then that I escape.

I pick up my ballpoint pen, push aside my geography textbook, 
feel a faint pang of guilt for not paying more attention in class,
I rest my wrist against my table,
Grab a scrap piece of paper,

And begin to write.

Curves and lines across the paper, my mind escaping towards the summer sky. The sky so close, such a deep blue, but never quite attainable.

And on those almost-summer-but-not-quite days I write something like this:

"Who am I to judge? I'm not particularly pretty, or smart, or kind-hearted, or balanced, so, really, who am I to judge? But I can't help feeling different. I might occasionally speak like those girls, dress like them, or maybe even roll my eyes like them, but I simply cannot seem to fit in with them. No, I feel cramped and not quite content. It is a thought that passes now and again. Is this really it? I don't want my life to be the usual. I don't want it to be mundane. I want to make a difference, and I want to create beautiful things. I don't want to be rushed into things, but take things one thing at at time."

'Zoé.' On those days, I whip my head up, quickly glance at the board, and answer the question asked by the teacher.

On those days, I put away my scrap piece of paper to glue into my journal and smile. 

It will happen. It is happening.
wow. wow. wow.

2 thoughts:

  1. " I'm not particularly pretty, or smart, or kind-hearted, or balanced,"
    just a fact i had to correct :)
    -liv :)


Thank you so much for taking the time to say 'hi'; it's great hearing from you. ❀