Well and far away...

I don't have time for a proper entry, so I'll give you a little narrative piece I wrote in my Comp & Reading class today. It's non-fiction.

The Cowardly Dreamer

Mountain tops are colored like rip orange fruits by the setting sun. The air isn’t that thick, warm feeling that it is back home, back towards the East Coast but short of it—right there in the middle. Home. I want this to be home, I want to hang on a swing strung between two trees with a drink in my hand and a fan in another. I hear and crave the constant opening and closing of a sliding glass door. A blast of cool air conditioning and the sounds of video games and laughter hits me. I want this; I need these arms that are wrapped around me. I need this scent that fills my nose and the mountains in the horizon and the sea salt in the air.

I have dreamed that dream so long. Since almost exactly eleven months ago. But I still wake up in a room decorated by a child that no longer exists. A room that used to contain fire and passion, but now only contains the dull blue glow of someone beaten down and forced into a shell. A woman trapped, a wild animal caged until the spark leaves it eyes and leaves them flat and shiny like buttons. And I am reminded of the words of one of my trusted friends; we as people know more in dreams then in real life.

Sometimes I find ways to absorb myself into nonessential activities; web-surfing, channel-flipping. Everyone should—but don’t seem to—know that if I’ve only picked up one book in a month something is desperately wrong with me. But those people I surround myself with, and the general population, don’t pay attention to these things. We tend to just see what has changed, and now why, and we then tend to overlook someone’s subtle cry for help when they’re choking on reality.

I need those orange colored mountains right now. I need to see them and sense them at my back, so horribly that it is an ache in my chest. I crave so much the salty taste of the ocean on the air. I have sometimes had dreams of this place so vivid that I wake up with the smells, the sounds and the tastes all around me, crowding my stuffy little children’s room with a place I haven’t visited in years.

I turn up my stereo and drown in music, sound and lyrics.

When I surface again, time has passed. Hours and—as I notice a calendar—weeks. It is so very easy to live without living—to see without seeing and… you get the picture. I have lost weeks of my live that I will never remember but I am glad, for surely if I were to actually live them I would go mad.

I realize in these moments when the veil lifts and I become proper again that I am a true coward. If I am to actually escape this hell-hole then I need to just Go, and be damned the consequences. But I am a coward trying to make right decisions that end up making me and my life more miserable. That the only one possibly to be blamed for any and all of this is ME. Me for not leaving when I had all those chances.

I have had impure thoughts this last week. I thought that maybe I could stay until the summer, finish up another semester of college. I thought that this would be the wise and mature thing for me to do.

Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession and I am long overdue. I confess to being a cowardly dreamer, and I am sorry.

-Teigra.

Your two quotes of the day:

"Love is the difficult realization that something other then oneself is real."
Iris Murdoch

"We do not write because we want to, we write because we have to."
W. Somerset Maughan