Listening to: … Other people writing, ho hum.
Yesterday I was being fifteen minutes early to photography class when the heel of my little brown vintage-ish boot popped off. So, thinking I had fifteen minutes to spare, I hobbled back to my room to superglue the heel back on. Bad idea. The superglue was clogged, so I used the point of my earring to open it up. It wouldn’t come out, though, so I squeezed and squeezed it until… it exploded all over me. My blue vintage vest was untouched, luckily, but my blue babydoll dress that was the first dress I honestly enjoyed wearing on a regular basis was ruined, because try as I might I could not use an old toothbrush and nailpolish remover and my neighbor’s detergent to scrub the glue stains out. And my hand was covered in superglue, which only added insult to injury when I arrived at English class to find that someone had stolen my seat.
The night before, though, I was reading and writing poetry, and I came across the poem “They are hostile nations” by Margaret Atwood. My favorite part is, “surviving/ is the only war/ we can afford, stay” but really I love the entire poem because it’s so tender (even though “tender” is an awkward word that ruins touching moments, like when two of your friends are holding hands and you comment on how tender it is). Something that is also tender is subtly grainy photos and snow, and grainy photos of people in snow and, just to complete this ranting sentence, you should know that it’s snowing here and no matter how much snow the groundskeepers blow away there’s always more, blanketing the walkways and the awkward stairs.
Also, and because the “writings.” page could always use an update, I have a poem for you. It’s very short.
there is a tightness in my chest
I have difficulty expressing
the words I cannot speak.