She

The light flickered above her while she was working on her newest project. Her stress is evident, the number of pages so plenty, her text messages coming, she’s done so much, will she not finish anytime soon? Why bother, why bother. . . She wants to get home.

    His coffee tastes well with a cigarette puff; as satisfying as the grocery bag in hand. He places the white stick of death in his mouth then puffed; mouth then puffed, slowly dying. Why bother, why bother. . . He wishes to go back home.

    The girl with the Skittles, who plans to buy her friend a gift. She wishes to buy a scarf, maybe because it was cold where she was. Her heart was excited to have him. Is she disappointed? Nobody knows, nobody knows, not even she. Why so alone, why so alone. . . now. . she just wanted to go home.

    And this is how she writes, neither poetry nor prose. Neither brilliant nor mediocre, so she thought, so we all thought. How she wishes for honesty in her writing. How she wishes for her mind to be full of clear thoughts, ideas, and humor. How she wishes to see things beyond herself – to see things beautiful, not just black and white, not just white on white. No holding back.

She saw the light flicker – light then black, then bright then black. She saw the cigarette puff – it was gray in the night sky that lived to make stars shine, but it was raining that time, and the stars were too shy to glow. Still, she knew beauty, merely knew beauty.

She saw and described, thought and described, lived and tried. But why bother, why bother. She was alone; she just wanted to go home.

17.7.08 13:04