Our ancestors got confused. The ones that crawled out of the “primordial ooze.” They should have stayed there, then we could have learned to swim, and kept our paws off technology and electricity. We’ve only been causing trouble — ever since we discovered fire.
I have a great mistrust of words. When I try to use them, to love them so intimately and feel each one, they twist and turn, poisoning the ears or the page they fall upon. The words that I hear dig and claw into me, and I am paralysed.
This is how we communicate, but I am sure you don’t understand me at all. No, not at all. But alone is so overdone. Every line a cliché that true meanings are hidden in experiences. But alas! We do not, we cannot, feel the same! In our madness, our frenzy to be connected, we spew, we spout, we spasm words, words, words! But not even I truly understood Hamlet’s dilemma.
Oh, but you saw how his words left him immobile!
Language is a prototype, never to be perfected, and so we wander, aimlessly focused, searching, and never knowing what for.
We’re all mad here and so commonplace for it.
the birds, she loved the birds and how they soared over the sea. Even the giant pelicans formed smooth lines as they glided above the water, with, what seemed like, no set destination. She would blink as she watched them, their wings blocking the sun’s rays for only seconds as they passed.
And there, the ocean. The ever comforting ocean that rocked like the cradle and soothed like the womb. She would walk slowly in, with her arms out, imagining she was Edna Pontellier. She contemplated the appeal of being drowned by that gentle sea when she had fought so much to live her own life.
And then there was the world, her position in it, where she stood–the water swallowing her body. And where maybe, some men and women in bright robes move through the water on the shores of Cape Verde, collecting salt in woven baskets. Much like an image she saw on the cover of a National Geographic magazine while making a collage when she was twelve. Was the water she swam in less salty for their heavy baskets?
She plunged under, listening to the bubbles rise up and allowing the undercurrents to run below her feet as she pulled them up. She rolled, holding her legs, with the waves and floated softly up like a balloon let loose by an inattentive child. As she stood again, she took a breath, letting the water drip into her mouth. They hadn’t gathered enough salt at all.
Perhaps if she swam for a few days, she could drag herself, dehydrated, and aching onto the Verde beach. Gasping, she would tell them that there was still too much salt in the water.
She wasn’t a strong swimmer though. If only she could fly.
This one was originally posted for the StoryaDay.org competition for this month. It is one of my preferred one, but if you would like to read the other ones they are here.
I felt old before I was ever young, as if my mama birthed an old woman; but instead of Benjamin Button, I just kept getting older. Perhaps that’s the epidemic, our childish transgressions are just attempts to regain a youth that never was. Or I’m just too old to see it any other way.
There is one in every blog.
The statement of intent, so here is mine:
As a human being living in the 21st century in a “rich” society, my mind is scattered all across the internet. You can find traces of it on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, even old dinosaurs have my print like Livejournal and Myspace. And these aren’t going away any time soon, despite attempts to reduce my footprint.
I am an adult now, or so they tell me, and careers are some socially supported idea that I am supposed to get on board with. My dream “career” if you must call it that, is simply to write, and be read, and to be perhaps valued for the words I spew. Hell, if they just listen, take it to heart, and make something better of the world for it, I don’t care if I am ever noticed by name then.
And so the ulterior motive of the blog comes to light. I am tired of being scattered, I would like to, just, say whatever I have to say, in whatever form I have to say it, and just let it all be in one place. Let it be that little black book that you must hide from the world, while you hide it in plain sight. I was graced with some opinions, and perhaps an excess amount of sympathy and that frustrated sense of helplessness. So I have to do something with my hands. While wordpress will serve that purpose, I am hoping that perhaps it shall work simultaneously as a working portfolio of my writing. Grad schools require silly things like that sometimes.
This may end up a failed project, like all of the other ones I promised I would keep up. Purpose statements are not always carried out as they should after all. But, I may possibly go insane, having no one to really to communicate this to (at least within a reasonable physical distance) so write here, in this little corner of the internet, I shall.
Stay reader, or move on to bigger and better things, but know that for an instant, we knew each other.