I feel like if I don’t write right now, my hearts going to explode out of my weighted chest. I’d like a moment to scream into the silence of my apartment and breathe all the frustrated sighs out of my crowded chest and into the trees that sway in the breeze outside my opened window. I want to breathe out until I become dizzy. I want my good, bad, and ugly words to swarm out of me like a battalion of bees and create a cyclone of sounds that release the stress I can’t express openly.
I want ellipses to fill the blank walls that reach from my frilled, white carpet to my tall, vaulted ceilings. At least then the walls won’t be so bare. At least then they won’t stare at me with boredom. I wish monkey bars reached from the east wall to the west wall because sometimes stretching eases the pressure. Hanging on the bar would mean I’m trying to change the pain, right? Floor stretching doesn’t cut it. I need some pull. I need some pull that will change it.
Maybe I should paint a wall, accent it. It’d give my life more color. Maybe it’d make it easier to entertain or to invite someone over to see something new, something creative. I create things, usually words though. Maybe I should paint my words on the wall to have something to look at, to be proud of, to feel momentarily progressive each day. Maybe I should paint one word each day to describe my thoughts and maybe after the year, I can write an article others may come upon that tells of me and that painted wall. How much is paint anyway?
The blankness of my life surrounds me and maybe it’s simply the vaulted ceilings that leave so much of this air empty. Or, maybe it’s the life choice I’ve made to dull down my life to settle into adulthood. Since when did I decide this? Would I really have become addicted to the city life after one more year living it? I always say I would have; maybe it’s just an excuse to support my decision to leave a rusted attempt for the rural country. Rural… it sounds like an antonym of the word, Me.
Someday I’ll teach and paint my words upon marker boards and in margins. The blank, quiet, rural country will have given me the education, but the radiant city will have taught me the importance of and passion for my words. The city taught me it’s important to be passionate. Because in the real world, outside of all this college crap, passion is all that matters to be good. I’m good. I know this. I just wish the lonely walls would understand and give me a break. Creativeness lives inside of Me and gently seeps through my fingertips onto the blank, whiteness of electronic paper. The whiteness of the glowing paper matches my walls that climb to my vaulted ceilings. Hmmm, would you look at that…