Sometimes I ask myself why I don't just chuck it all and go back to school.
Study the Romantics, or Homer. Read. Draw lines. Deconstruct.
And then, today as I walk back from lunch I know.
Because all that's on my mind is the precise warmth of the sun on my left temple, while my right remains cooler as I walk under fledgling trees, and the difference between those two feelings. The slap of my slippers against my soles, and the feel of the road that seeps through to my feet.The soft whoosh-whoosh in my ears that's the breeze. The pale pale pink of the hibiscus across the road.Voices. The weight of my spectacles on the bridge of my nose, the dent of it.
Some days ago, my friend said: you don't see the big picture. Everything is personal.
It's true.
All that interests me in that five minute walk are the things that I can sense. The ping of my id at the card reader. The force of my hands as they pull the cold door handle.I'd be an utter failure at philosophy because I'd be distracted by the sensation of cooling sweat against the nape of my neck as the artificially cooled air comes up against my sun warmed self.
I suppose this is why I like poetry.
Because I suspect that when she said hope is the thing with feathers, she meant that literally.
I may be wrong, but I don't think so.
Perhaps doubt is the way my brow crinkles right now.
She held the little bird and felt its heart thudding, thrumming,felt it slide beneath her skin and through her veins like nothing else in existence, beyond words really, but those are her only refuge and she said hope is the thing with feathers.
Study the Romantics, or Homer. Read. Draw lines. Deconstruct.
And then, today as I walk back from lunch I know.
Because all that's on my mind is the precise warmth of the sun on my left temple, while my right remains cooler as I walk under fledgling trees, and the difference between those two feelings. The slap of my slippers against my soles, and the feel of the road that seeps through to my feet.The soft whoosh-whoosh in my ears that's the breeze. The pale pale pink of the hibiscus across the road.Voices. The weight of my spectacles on the bridge of my nose, the dent of it.
Some days ago, my friend said: you don't see the big picture. Everything is personal.
It's true.
All that interests me in that five minute walk are the things that I can sense. The ping of my id at the card reader. The force of my hands as they pull the cold door handle.I'd be an utter failure at philosophy because I'd be distracted by the sensation of cooling sweat against the nape of my neck as the artificially cooled air comes up against my sun warmed self.
I suppose this is why I like poetry.
Because I suspect that when she said hope is the thing with feathers, she meant that literally.
I may be wrong, but I don't think so.
Perhaps doubt is the way my brow crinkles right now.
She held the little bird and felt its heart thudding, thrumming,felt it slide beneath her skin and through her veins like nothing else in existence, beyond words really, but those are her only refuge and she said hope is the thing with feathers.
2 comments:
My dear girl. Such gorgeous writing. I want to hold it tightly and make it mine! :)
Its official. I am a fan.
Ph
@Ph: Aww, thanks. Hopefully, I will keep at it. Also: that's how I feel about your writing since like..forever. So.*basking * ;)
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