seasons

We all think we’re so grown up
So experienced
We know so much
And I’m so afraid
Of the day
We all find out we’re wrong

The world of seventeen
Gets more broad by forty-three
Seasons change
In a way
Where fed up
Was years ago
And snow falls
Before the sun
Gets its chance to go down
Before leaves
Even get to let go

Like the blooming
Of so many flowers
Taking place
Over so many hours
And the color
From another sunset sky
With the age
People change

Innocence fades

So tell me…

Is it alright,
To be a little more awkward than I should?
I know it gets me nowhere…

But still, maybe I’ll do something right.
Doubt it–
–I don’t have the kind of personality
For that kind of luck.

Blink
Smile
Stare
Are you seeing me?  The wall behind me?
Do I even care as much as I say I might?

Sure, it’d be great if something just made sense.
Something like this poem, that’s not even poetic.
I’m just writing here.
I’m just scribbling.
That’s what I do best.
Empty thoughts fill empty paper–

It looks whiter than the page I began with.

Oh, the times when words don’t even make sense anymore.
Writing, much less.
Type away, type away.
You’ll recognize it soon enough.

See it?  Confidence.
Slowly peeking through the headache
Of what’s felt like a thousand days gone by.
(Everyone uses a thousand.)

I’ll be okay, in the end.

I just wish the journey could change.

Moments of grace.

The sky is sparkling tonight.

Each crystal catches the light, dancing upon the wind, slowly swaying with the playing of the moonlight on the snowflake.

It’s cold, but I don’t care.

I might not feel my toes, my nose, or the tips of my thumbs.  But for a moment, in the dark, only ever in the dark, I can feel past the trees and the glow of the buildings into something I could imagine as soothing and eternal.  Wonderful wishing, this moment of grace.

Quietly my mind sweeps the area around me.  I have to be alone to be so free, forgetful of being lonely.  I wish my mind worked in other ways.  Ways of pretty girls with flowing skirts, and eyes like the stars in the sky, the stars I can’t see through the clouds.  Their laugh could make the world feel better, their smile cause time to skip its beat, until their destiny is fixed forever into stories told to make little girls snuggle down for happy dreams.

I keep my voice to myself and pull the scarf up to my eyes before I allow my arms to trail out.  For a moment I watch as my warm coat melts each beautiful flake, each precious and unique flake, that might’ve been caught by a pretty girl’s lashes.

Then, I let myself begin to turn, because the sky is sparkling tonight, and I decide to feel what I could never be.

Haiku!

雪景空
眠れない夜
星がない

Sekkei sora
Nemurenai yoru
Hoshi ga nai…

Snowy sky
A sleepless night
No stars…

And she returns.  Sick, yes, tired, yes, back at school and already worried over work again.  But in tact, with poetry at my side.

I’ve got some other stuff, so hang in there.  It may have been ages since I’ve actually put something up, but the internet signal here is, well, existant.

Ciao!

A terrible writer am I.

I know, I know, I’ve been horrible at maintaining this.  Two days and I’m free.   Free, I tell you.   From the clutches of Academy.

But just in case you thought I was dead (hell, I’ve thought I was dead for the past couple weeks), I thought I’d put something up.  Even if all this does is make people laugh at my ridiculousness, that’s okay.  Sometimes, I’m truly ridiculous.  All you have to do is ask Classic Act’s boy.  He might write decent poetry (and fanfic!) but in his freetime, what he really likes to do is mock people! (a la Josh Lyman…I miss that name)  Lucky boy, that I know not to take it seriously.  I have a mean kick.

Oh, the novel…the one that was maybe going to be a NaNoWriMo, is going.  But it is not going quickly.  (Note the lack of time to update here.  I have about two minutes to finish typing this, and it’s off to a chemistry lab) It should be done sometime within the next…few…months.  Wow, it’s never encouraging to admit that sort of thing.  This stuff really is a lot of time.  But that way, it’s actually a finished, polished product, rather than something sketched out.  I’ll keep random updates on that going.

Well, at this point, it’s Mata Doyoubi.  Ashita is all too close and jam packed with not-my-birthday and four hour internetless bus rides home.

But Saturday (Doyoubi) will come sooner than I think.  It always does.

NaNoWriMo 2006

My last three posts are a short story I’ll probably carry into my NaNoWriMo.  I’m thinking.  I didn’t have planning time before because getting to a foreign country is so much work.

Any thoughts?  Good start?  Is it a typical, or annoying premise? (Something I’m always worried about is being too generic.  I’ve been spinning around the story to try to get something out of the ordinary.)  Help, four days into the month, could be fantastic.

…thanks.  ^_^

As a footnote, please, as always, be completely honest.  If it’s terrible, I’d rather know that than write junk.  Agreed?

Chicago, Part 3.

I didn’t want to tell you. But honestly, I did. “Ellery White.” (last name subject to change) Our address was unlisted anyway. Not that I honestly think that would have kept you away.

“Nice to meet another person blatantly named after a writer.”

When I glanced up it was the first time I actually noticed you.

Chicago, Part 2.

You were a bit of a mystery for a while. You were too familiar to be anything but.

“Hey you.” You were only recognizable as a stranger in the dark, clouded twilight. I didn’t even bother registering your voice as audible to me until you planted yourself on the concrete next to me. “I said hello.”

I looked up. You were a stranger, remember? “Hello.” And I looked down. Suddenly, my pen poised over the paper, suspended and uneasy by both the idea of a stranger and the idea of sketching real words.

“So. How are you?”

Chicago.

No matter how I look at it, I always mean to say “I want to find someone.” “I can’t wait until I’m more mature.” “I want to get out of this place.” “I need to find myself, somehow.” It never means what I want it to, or what other people imagine it too, because I’m not naïve enough anymore. Who said too much past means no future? I wonder, sometimes, if it’s just me. This happens multiple times over a day, but never so fast. Sometimes I can actually believe I’m just confident. Maybe.

Hey, maybe I am. Maybe I’m confident enough to know what I want. Maybe I’m assertive, to admit that I’d like to find someone. I’m not made for this alone thing.

Then I look around. I’m not made for any of these guys, either.

Inspiration attacks.

There are people—I know them, they live two floors beneath me—who picture their world as what they create.  Get lost in some sort of media, they say.  It’ll make the world bearable.  Then I know these other people; they say the world is something to adapt to.  Get used to it, because you’ll probably never know much better than what you’ve got.

Me, I’m a different breed, I guess.  I didn’t know that it was so rare, but I want this world to be something I want.

When I say that, I’m not talking about something that didn’t exist before I made it up.  My mind is not the world.  I don’t think the world is all that bad, either, or there’d be no one who travels, or does anything interesting.  I hear about interesting things all the time.  I’m talking about experiencing.  I’m talking about living, really living, by getting out there and finding the good.  I don’t care if it takes a lifetime of searching, because there’s no point in finding it all anyway—I want to leave some for others to discover, though it’s true that every discovery is honestly your own, if you found it.

For myself, I want to see the world, and get whatever I can out of it.  I want to touch the corners of the earth and find them dull and shredded like the corners of a well-worn book.  My world will be treasured, and its pages will be full of life.

That’s my reason for everything, really.  What I’m not looking for is a purpose, it’s a procedure.  A means to no necessary end.  I do because I want to find out what happens when I do.  I want to know where the places I go can lead me.  I want to see what doors open behind the windows, the skylights, the peepholes, under the magnifying glass.  They’re there, not always easy to find, and not always easy to open.  Sometimes the key is with someone else.  Sometimes the key is somewhere too obvious, like every time I’ve lost my school ID only to find it on my chair, or on my desk, or even worse, where it’s supposed to be, hanging in its holder.

But the point is, it’s always there, and it requires less than reason to want it.  Curiosity isn’t always reasonable.  An eager search for the unknown isn’t logical, but it’s what makes the world something to be in.