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BeccaFay
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Country: United States
State: New York
Birthday: 11/27/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: Being me...as much as I know how.
Expertise: Pigging Out, and making really bad jokes here and there
Message: message me
Member Since:
6/5/2003
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| At the laundromat, Taier and I washed our clothes. One machine for
jeans, one machine for colors, and one machine for delicates. We looked
at our clothes, admiring the many beautiful cloths, appreciating
earth's cotton and silk. "I can't believe we got so many of these at
the Salvation Army" said Taier. I nodded. Several minutes before
closing time, we packed the unfolded clothes and said bye to the nice
chinese man who works there. The Russian guy is bitter and pushes you
out. The chinese guy is sweet and smiles. "That says a lot about
character," the wind carried Taier's voice into my ears on our short
walk back. We layed the clothes out on her bed and began folding. A
pleasant dinner interruption rang down the stairs: "Get yo booty up for
dinner," screeched Fayna. We enjoyed Momma's divine cream of mushroom
soup, Peter's chicken nuggets and a childhood memory and favorite,
kasha. Fayna picked on Momma, and Momma played the scene and we laughed
over dinner, followed by sweet concord grapes. Afterwards, back to some
good music and folding. Some Caetano Velosa, Spanish beats, and a few
of Taier's awesome picks.
I brought all the clothes to my
room, and thought about how all these clean clothes ideally belong to a
clean room. So I busted out the Nas Illmatic (Beatles and Abdullah
Ibrahim too,) and began exchanging summer clothes in the closet and
drawers for winter warmth. After reorganizing everything including the
sock drawer, I changed my sheets. Then I swept my floor. And cleaned
the dust. The open windows provided for the crisp clean winter air to
join. And then an incense stick made for a pleasant aroma. Succesfully
done, I sat down to enjoy a cup of tea (and a very unneeded cigarette).
Clean clothes, clean room, clearer mind, and now the last task will be
to clean myself in a delicious shower, where I can appreciate the hot
water that half of the world doesn't have. Later tonight I will join my
chemistry textbook for a date, as I learn about the intricite
microscopic details of life. I shall hop into clean sheets, in a clean
room, on a full stomach, with clean hair, and an unexplainable
appreciation for all of the simpliest things in this world. | | |
| "Mike is in his driving mode," said I, sitting in the back of the red car. He turns his head slightly, "You know what I like about driving?" he responds. I stared forward into the road for a moment. "What?" With a swift motion of his hand, he lifted it up and brought it forward so that his fingers faced out into the blue night, "Because you are going staright ahead." I sat for a minute, staring sraight ahead. There is a painting at all instantaneous moments, when you stare straight ahead. Looking at the sides every thing is blurry. (That is where I saw myself.) "I can't wait until I learn to drive." Silence. It's nice to focus travelling on a continuous line forward. No matter where you turn, you just keep going forward. | | |
| Sweat droplets trickle down my back. Near my ponytail and forehead, my
hair is moist with H20 and Na. My throat still burns with pain because
of winter's coming cold air, that moves with greater entropy within the
open space of the park. I feel better, relieved of toxins, and clarity
is my mind. Ain't nothing like a good sweat playing some good ol'
basketball. =) | | |
| The desire to write has shaken my soul and yet words are hard to find
within my silly brain mold. I think it may be made of clay, that
oxidizes in the air, because everyday, a new layer of rust settles.
On
the bus ride home, the idea that permeated my mind was human habitual
behavior. Eating, waking up, school, homework, sleeping, waking up and
so on. I know it's pessimistic, but sometimes I do get pessimistic, and
see a cup half empty. I think to myself about my ideal "happy" life. I
think about my desire to be remembered and change the world for the
better, a new scientific discovery perhaps. And I think about how I
tell myself I can be an Einstein, and if not an Einstein then a
Dostoevsky. And then I have the feeling, on a regular day, heading
home, that I won't be anything. Insecurity settles strongly and I feel
worthless, and meaningless, and believe I can't surmount to anything.
Such thoughts happen in a span of three seconds before they are
discarded into the garbage can entitled ridiculous stupidity. And it
takes about a good hour to find my balance again, to convince myself to
work hard, to convince myself otherwise, knowing all the while the
thought remains but is temporarily pushed aside eager to return. Then
reality sets in. Life isn't suppose to be happy. It's tragic, and sad,
and distraught with war and disgust, selfishness and greed, jealousy
and envy. Even if I avoid such things, I feel I need suffering to
create, like Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment. If I don't have it, I
seek it in ways that make me lose self-respect, the worst of the worst.
I used to expect a great life for myself, now I know, the least I expect, the less hurt I will be. | | |
| Imagine sitting on a swing and feeling the breeze pierce soft cheeks.
Oh, how nice it is to let something else support all of your weight.
And if you want to fly, you have to place some weight on your own two
feet. Once flying, you must keep working to stay flying. To forever
feel the autumn wind blow your hair back and dry your eyes out so they
create a liquid film above to compensate. And in this state, you see
all perspectives. "Oh captain, my captain!" I want to learn to fly. | | |
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