I just CANNOT bring myself to do anything productive--I am constantly distracted. Not in a very positive way either; at least not tonight.
One nice thing was that I noticed I had a total of three(3, hell yeah!) comments comments on the two recent posts. I don't want to sound cynical at all, it encourages one to see someone -does- read what you pour into this virtual space.
Dicle, that comment was very kind of you. I follow your blog with vital interest; and I actually have a couple of words to tell you about the post "Lame". Well, let me complete the advertisement session by giving her blog address: wintryepiphany.blogspot.com
Dear anonymous person who simply posted "pou na 'sai tora, anna" as a comment, cheers. It took me quite a while meddling with Google Translate to give up and google the phrase and realize it is actually a song. Did you mean the Goran Bregovic version? The piece isn't really too easy to find on the internet; and the one Bregovic version I could find online dies before the end, and quite soon after the song -in my humble opinion- actually becomes quite pleasant to listen to.
The third and last comment, also anonymous, asked me to post on this blog a certain piece of poetry I had written about two years ago. I happily oblige. I had entered a writing competition ("Jane Page" is the name of the contest, so chillax, I wasn't asked to put an actual person on the blog, just a poem submitted to the compe--ANYWAYS.) with that piece and had won an honorable mention. It might be the single poem that I actively worked on for weeks; my normal writing process involves a good deal of letting things brew on their own and come back to me when they are "ready". When writing the poem I will post below -which actually is the main reason I am making this entry- I changed and re-changed and re-changed every word, every punctuation mark and every single simple expression 'til I find it the best it could be.
Do I find it perfect? Of course not. I never did--though a year ago I thought it more beautiful than I do now, and two years ago I was astonished by having written it. Shortly, it is quite a valuable little thing to me, so please forgive me for having you spend the time to read it if you don't like it in the end. Here we go.
the Overheard Prayer
THIS PART IS ACTUALLY ONLY A LITTLE LETTER BUT I
WAS TOLD THAT YOU WANTED POEMS NOT POEMS AND LITTLE LETTERS
SO I PUT IT INTO LINES TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE A POEM
THIS IS THE PRAYER OF SOMEONE
A PRAYER I HAVE OVERHEARD ACTUALLY
THE VERY FIRST ONE I HAVE EVER OVERHEARD
SINCE THE DAYS BEFORE THE PUNCTUATION MARKS AND THE INK AND THE PAPER EXISTED—
SINCE THE DAYS BEFORE THE DESIRES OF THE FLESH OF THE BOSS OF YOUR BANK ACCOUNT
OVERRULED THE EMOTIONAL HUNGER AND THE WIND
Signed:
GOD
THE BIGGEST LIE EVER or
THE ONE WHO LET THERE BE LIGHT)
I know that you had your all-poetic thoughts
about dreams
As for me, I guess I simply fear them.
But I like singing along to them
when I can’t go to sleep.
I know that you’re quite proud of yourself
when we go to sleep
I don’t need a haven though,
I don’t want one.
Yet every night, I join all the others
for a very warm imitation of death.
I know you’re in all these human crowds
to grant everyone company
I could’ve hated you for that
I could’ve denied you—
Only if you were not also
in the solitude of rain.
Yes, I know that you weren’t so sure
when you were making love
I know you too, in those darkest nights,
all alone and cold, in your bed of stars and straw
fear that day they will tell you
that all your beloved ones are now dead.
Don’t worry, though, I know you were crying when you
Destined them –us- to death.
And I know why you clouded the skies
But you didn’t hide the stars away.
I know that you didn’t want all these
Lonely little poet souls to die
They always left the last word
To you, after all.
So I thank you,
Kutay.
***
Gosh, I don't think I even like this thing anymore.
25 Ekim 2011 Salı
24 Ekim 2011 Pazartesi
This'll be a short post. GOOD NEWS:
I have officially started writing my FIRST THEATRE PLAY.
Below are two little teasers. One is the very beginning of the play and is mostly set description; and the other is the beginning of a later scene with a few sentences the main character utters. Nothing too exciting; but wanted to toss those in--I really do feel excited about this thing.
1
Curtains closed. Very dim lighting. A man lying on a groundbed, sound asleep, IN FRONT OF the curtain.
Two NINJA enter. Blades drawn, they approach the sleeping man. When the NINJA are only a couple of steps away from the man, one stumbles and the sleeping man wakes up. Surprised and panicked, he reaches for his blade lying next to him; but the NINJA reach and kill him before he can rise and defend himself. They keep brutally stabbing the body for a little while even after the man is obviously dead; and then leave.
Curtains rise, lights on. The body of the murdered man is still lying on stage. Behind, a formal council. DAIMYO MIURA sits on an elaborate throne. There are two man to his left and right each, sitting on flat pillows and forming a slight crescent with DAIMYO MIURA at the very center. All four are men of dignity and importance. Behind those, standing, are a weeping woman, a boy no older than thirteen; and two other, younger men. It is obvious from their clothing and stance that these two also of noble birth and importance.
2
TAKESHI is sitting cross-legged, apparently deep in thought. He is wearing full armor and hit katana lies on his lap. Suddenly, three men enter from different sides and attack TAKESHI. After a short fighting sequence, they are defeated by the samurai, who is not breathing heavily but is uninjured. There must be blood on TAKESHI's blade. Just as he lifts his blade, lights come ON.
TAKESHI. (Inspecting the blood on his blade calmly) So...easy. To kill. To die. Blood; warm and alive and untouched--so easily taken out of the vein, so fast to dry and cool. From life, to utter lifelessness, within minutes.
And yet, I look at the blood I've spilled, I watch my opponents die before me; I feel...nothing.
***
Hopefully much more to come. Enjoy your week--I surely am enjoying mine!
I have officially started writing my FIRST THEATRE PLAY.
Below are two little teasers. One is the very beginning of the play and is mostly set description; and the other is the beginning of a later scene with a few sentences the main character utters. Nothing too exciting; but wanted to toss those in--I really do feel excited about this thing.
1
Curtains closed. Very dim lighting. A man lying on a groundbed, sound asleep, IN FRONT OF the curtain.
Two NINJA enter. Blades drawn, they approach the sleeping man. When the NINJA are only a couple of steps away from the man, one stumbles and the sleeping man wakes up. Surprised and panicked, he reaches for his blade lying next to him; but the NINJA reach and kill him before he can rise and defend himself. They keep brutally stabbing the body for a little while even after the man is obviously dead; and then leave.
Curtains rise, lights on. The body of the murdered man is still lying on stage. Behind, a formal council. DAIMYO MIURA sits on an elaborate throne. There are two man to his left and right each, sitting on flat pillows and forming a slight crescent with DAIMYO MIURA at the very center. All four are men of dignity and importance. Behind those, standing, are a weeping woman, a boy no older than thirteen; and two other, younger men. It is obvious from their clothing and stance that these two also of noble birth and importance.
2
TAKESHI is sitting cross-legged, apparently deep in thought. He is wearing full armor and hit katana lies on his lap. Suddenly, three men enter from different sides and attack TAKESHI. After a short fighting sequence, they are defeated by the samurai, who is not breathing heavily but is uninjured. There must be blood on TAKESHI's blade. Just as he lifts his blade, lights come ON.
TAKESHI. (Inspecting the blood on his blade calmly) So...easy. To kill. To die. Blood; warm and alive and untouched--so easily taken out of the vein, so fast to dry and cool. From life, to utter lifelessness, within minutes.
And yet, I look at the blood I've spilled, I watch my opponents die before me; I feel...nothing.
***
Hopefully much more to come. Enjoy your week--I surely am enjoying mine!
20 Ekim 2011 Perşembe
Thursday Night Pandemonium
I am absolutely in love with the world right now: I haven’t put a single letter down for Advanced Writing since last Friday. Want to guess what day this is?
Yup. Thursday. That means I have to turn in fourteen pages of writing tomorrow. I had done four pages for some Advanced Writing Project that I can put in, which leaves me with, yes, you know it too, ten pages to write tonight!
Having to do ten pages in a total of seven hours and eleven minutes (lights go off at eleven PM at the boys’ dorm) would be an abysmal task even if I knew what to write. I could write the same word for ten pages or copy down bits and pieces from the book I am currently reading (“Collected Plays of Neil Simon” —it probably makes me sound more sophisticated than I actually am.) or write down SAT words and their definitions. Except I’m not in the mood for such utterly dull activities. I actually really want to do something creative at the moment. I could…try to write a story; but I am out of ideas. I could start the play I’ve been wanting to write for a long time (and it sure will make me the next Neil Simon, baby. hell yeah.) except I don’t know what to write about. Not precisely. I kind of want to tell the tale of a samurai in search of the perfect #insert something here#. Option two is a very modern piece on the concept of “difference” –as in, different cultures, lifestyles, varying perspectives of the same world we are living on, that sort of stuff- and/or “indifference”-hello, high-school teenage society!- . I like the samurai idea because I instantly buy the honour-bound-noble-warrior-looking-for-perfection idea; and I would find it quite amazing to explore how far a man could go for honour and what exactly is “perfection” for each of us. No, I won’t tell you what my visualisation of perfect is at this point in time. *pushes something out of his mind*
Ahem. Anyways. The modern piece, especially one about the way young people are forcing themselves on a path to indifference and lack of originality would also be nice to work on, simply because, it’d tell what I see around myself all the time. I could potentially take a degree of pleasure if I staged the play (which will, by the way, absolutely happen if I ever write any play in my high-school career; very possibly on second semester this year if I can start writing soon.) —kind of like a slap to some members of the crowd I’m living within.
Oh my, I sound so harsh. On second thought, I’m not sure about the pleasure I mentioned above. Nah, I wouldn’t like that. My ego doesn’t work that way—I do not favour difference in thought and spirit and preference because I necessarily find “different” on a higher pedestal than “ordinary”: One would definitely notice a different voice amongst an otherwise univocal chorus. If that one different voice is a bad one, though, the fact that it’s not like the others doesn’t make you like it, does it?
Though I must say that if it’s a voice different from the others (or at least you hear it so) and if it’s a beautiful voice, too, then very bad stuff happens. To you.
Anyways, I’ve no idea why any of the stuff I wrote in the past three pages would interest you, friends, so I’m finishing this entry here. One thing is certain: I’m not starting to write a play whatsoever tonight.
P.S: Leonard Cohen. Magnificent poet, incomparable song-writer. Please do read his poems and listen to his songs if you haven’t done before, people, though it’s unlikely that you haven’t if you are a person I converse with on a regular basis. Start with reading “A Thousand Kisses Deep” and listening to “Dance Me to the End of Love” (Live in London version) please. His new album will be released on the 31st of January, so I’m overjoyed.
P.S 2: Someone from Russia follows my blog. I do not recall any active friendship with someone living in Russia; but seeing hits from Russia every time I succumb to the desire and check my blog visit counter gives me a huge smile. I don’t know who you are, but thank you, my друг!
Yup. Thursday. That means I have to turn in fourteen pages of writing tomorrow. I had done four pages for some Advanced Writing Project that I can put in, which leaves me with, yes, you know it too, ten pages to write tonight!
Having to do ten pages in a total of seven hours and eleven minutes (lights go off at eleven PM at the boys’ dorm) would be an abysmal task even if I knew what to write. I could write the same word for ten pages or copy down bits and pieces from the book I am currently reading (“Collected Plays of Neil Simon” —it probably makes me sound more sophisticated than I actually am.) or write down SAT words and their definitions. Except I’m not in the mood for such utterly dull activities. I actually really want to do something creative at the moment. I could…try to write a story; but I am out of ideas. I could start the play I’ve been wanting to write for a long time (and it sure will make me the next Neil Simon, baby. hell yeah.) except I don’t know what to write about. Not precisely. I kind of want to tell the tale of a samurai in search of the perfect #insert something here#. Option two is a very modern piece on the concept of “difference” –as in, different cultures, lifestyles, varying perspectives of the same world we are living on, that sort of stuff- and/or “indifference”-hello, high-school teenage society!- . I like the samurai idea because I instantly buy the honour-bound-noble-warrior-looking-for-perfection idea; and I would find it quite amazing to explore how far a man could go for honour and what exactly is “perfection” for each of us. No, I won’t tell you what my visualisation of perfect is at this point in time. *pushes something out of his mind*
Ahem. Anyways. The modern piece, especially one about the way young people are forcing themselves on a path to indifference and lack of originality would also be nice to work on, simply because, it’d tell what I see around myself all the time. I could potentially take a degree of pleasure if I staged the play (which will, by the way, absolutely happen if I ever write any play in my high-school career; very possibly on second semester this year if I can start writing soon.) —kind of like a slap to some members of the crowd I’m living within.
Oh my, I sound so harsh. On second thought, I’m not sure about the pleasure I mentioned above. Nah, I wouldn’t like that. My ego doesn’t work that way—I do not favour difference in thought and spirit and preference because I necessarily find “different” on a higher pedestal than “ordinary”: One would definitely notice a different voice amongst an otherwise univocal chorus. If that one different voice is a bad one, though, the fact that it’s not like the others doesn’t make you like it, does it?
Though I must say that if it’s a voice different from the others (or at least you hear it so) and if it’s a beautiful voice, too, then very bad stuff happens. To you.
Anyways, I’ve no idea why any of the stuff I wrote in the past three pages would interest you, friends, so I’m finishing this entry here. One thing is certain: I’m not starting to write a play whatsoever tonight.
P.S: Leonard Cohen. Magnificent poet, incomparable song-writer. Please do read his poems and listen to his songs if you haven’t done before, people, though it’s unlikely that you haven’t if you are a person I converse with on a regular basis. Start with reading “A Thousand Kisses Deep” and listening to “Dance Me to the End of Love” (Live in London version) please. His new album will be released on the 31st of January, so I’m overjoyed.
P.S 2: Someone from Russia follows my blog. I do not recall any active friendship with someone living in Russia; but seeing hits from Russia every time I succumb to the desire and check my blog visit counter gives me a huge smile. I don’t know who you are, but thank you, my друг!
16 Ekim 2011 Pazar
I think this one needs no explanation.
Everything Inside
Everything inside me
heart, soul, blood, insestines and all
yearn to reach out to you, they fight to go to you
they rip their way outside me but they fall
and become the first lines of this poem.
My brain is unsure whether to protest or not;
there is just not enough space within my skull for it
and so much of you that it actually
loves sharing the tiny space with.
I am learned in biology, you see--
I know if one can stretch all the nerve cells in his body
end to end, he can touch the moon and then back Earth.
My nerve cells are all in the process of
unfurling and moving out and connecting
so that they can go out and find you in the night
and touch your soft moonlit skin
Everything Inside
Everything inside me
heart, soul, blood, insestines and all
yearn to reach out to you, they fight to go to you
they rip their way outside me but they fall
and become the first lines of this poem.
My brain is unsure whether to protest or not;
there is just not enough space within my skull for it
and so much of you that it actually
loves sharing the tiny space with.
I am learned in biology, you see--
I know if one can stretch all the nerve cells in his body
end to end, he can touch the moon and then back Earth.
My nerve cells are all in the process of
unfurling and moving out and connecting
so that they can go out and find you in the night
and touch your soft moonlit skin
13 Ekim 2011 Perşembe
Roses
Alright, this is the last daily writing of the week. I mostly wrote an abridged version of “Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe over and over again for my daily writing this week because copying a monologue or short script for a number of times is a great way of memorizing the said piece. Now, I performed “Tell-Tale Heart” for my Storytelling Project in Modern Drama class. The performance went great; and do read the story if you haven’t already. I might put on the cut and simplified (at least in terms of vocabulary so that our audience consisting of preps could understand the thing) version on this blog in the coming days.
The most logical thing for me to do right now is to write the first draft of the strong response essay that I have to turn in unbelievably soon and have it count as my daily writing. Shall I do it? Of course not. I’ll do it later.
I’ve been neglecting the blog for quite some time now, so I’m writing a blog-specific piece. What is it about? I have no idea what I want to write about, so please bear with the indecent amount of randomness this post will probably present you with, dear readers.
I am, as usual, quite busy nowadays. Some of the things that currently eat away my time include rehearsals for the upcoming school musical (no spoilers here; but my part is quite outrageous—I would tell you more about it; but do come and see it on December. No problem if you aren’t an RC student.), Model UN, History Club, our English literary magazine “Kaleidoscope” (contact for your copy. Fardolf, that is almost entirely directed to you.), prefect duties in the boys’ residence, Atatürk commemoration day rehearsals. Ah, and school. I almost wrote “the inconvenient little thing called school”; but school isn’t really too much of that dull, inconvenient thing that’s been shadowing the joys of my extracurricular activities for the past couple of years in varying degrees. Freshman year was the worst: Eight hours of science and five hours of the most disgusting sort of math I’ve ever known all but taken away all the happiness theatre acting, with which I was newly meeting, gave me.
Of course it’d be a lie if I said I’m at all far away from being an acquaintance with acting now; but I’m getting to like it more and more every day; and thanks to all the beautiful things on this world, it seems to be taking a liking in me. I am almost sure that a life of theatre, or at least to pursuit for a life in theatre, is my calling. This increasing sense of resolution is a very sweet thing. It does give me a weird sort of potent energy. I couldn’t feel less tired.
My Advanced Writing teacher kind of caught me off guard this week when he returned the folder with my daily writings in it. One of the short essays within was titles “The Joys of My Crowded Life”. I had basically written about how overscheduled I am after my old P.E. teacher said to me “Too much goin’ on. Slow down, man. Slow down.” after seeing me running somewhere in a hurry for possibly the 23095825th time. My Advanced Writing teacher apparently read this essay (along with pretty much all the others, which was a fiercely impressive action—credit where it’s due.); and near the paragraph containing the quotation from the P.E. teacher, he wrote “Roses, man, roses.” I asked him what he meant by that today. He said “Well, try to stop and smell the roses.” I said that that was what my life is about, it’s just that the rose garden I am wandering in is relatively huge.
He then said: “Ah, I also meant to say, “Fall in love.” You can go around all day that way and don’t need any sleep at all.”
Been there, done that. He’s actually right. Being in love is great while you’re in the process of being in love; but my own humble experience resulted in nothing but severe heartache, seemingly endless distress, a lasting grudge and disappointment in myself. A bitter cocktail, terribly hard to swallow down. What’s worse is that the taste it left took a horribly long time to go away. It eventually did, though. Quite some time ago.
Roses, man, roses. The words haunt me. Do I feel the symptoms of being in the best rose garden of all again? I don’t know. I wouldn’t tell you if I did, folks. It would be anti-climactic, wouldn’t it?
Have fun, guys. I’ll write more soon.
The most logical thing for me to do right now is to write the first draft of the strong response essay that I have to turn in unbelievably soon and have it count as my daily writing. Shall I do it? Of course not. I’ll do it later.
I’ve been neglecting the blog for quite some time now, so I’m writing a blog-specific piece. What is it about? I have no idea what I want to write about, so please bear with the indecent amount of randomness this post will probably present you with, dear readers.
I am, as usual, quite busy nowadays. Some of the things that currently eat away my time include rehearsals for the upcoming school musical (no spoilers here; but my part is quite outrageous—I would tell you more about it; but do come and see it on December. No problem if you aren’t an RC student.), Model UN, History Club, our English literary magazine “Kaleidoscope” (contact for your copy. Fardolf, that is almost entirely directed to you.), prefect duties in the boys’ residence, Atatürk commemoration day rehearsals. Ah, and school. I almost wrote “the inconvenient little thing called school”; but school isn’t really too much of that dull, inconvenient thing that’s been shadowing the joys of my extracurricular activities for the past couple of years in varying degrees. Freshman year was the worst: Eight hours of science and five hours of the most disgusting sort of math I’ve ever known all but taken away all the happiness theatre acting, with which I was newly meeting, gave me.
Of course it’d be a lie if I said I’m at all far away from being an acquaintance with acting now; but I’m getting to like it more and more every day; and thanks to all the beautiful things on this world, it seems to be taking a liking in me. I am almost sure that a life of theatre, or at least to pursuit for a life in theatre, is my calling. This increasing sense of resolution is a very sweet thing. It does give me a weird sort of potent energy. I couldn’t feel less tired.
My Advanced Writing teacher kind of caught me off guard this week when he returned the folder with my daily writings in it. One of the short essays within was titles “The Joys of My Crowded Life”. I had basically written about how overscheduled I am after my old P.E. teacher said to me “Too much goin’ on. Slow down, man. Slow down.” after seeing me running somewhere in a hurry for possibly the 23095825th time. My Advanced Writing teacher apparently read this essay (along with pretty much all the others, which was a fiercely impressive action—credit where it’s due.); and near the paragraph containing the quotation from the P.E. teacher, he wrote “Roses, man, roses.” I asked him what he meant by that today. He said “Well, try to stop and smell the roses.” I said that that was what my life is about, it’s just that the rose garden I am wandering in is relatively huge.
He then said: “Ah, I also meant to say, “Fall in love.” You can go around all day that way and don’t need any sleep at all.”
Been there, done that. He’s actually right. Being in love is great while you’re in the process of being in love; but my own humble experience resulted in nothing but severe heartache, seemingly endless distress, a lasting grudge and disappointment in myself. A bitter cocktail, terribly hard to swallow down. What’s worse is that the taste it left took a horribly long time to go away. It eventually did, though. Quite some time ago.
Roses, man, roses. The words haunt me. Do I feel the symptoms of being in the best rose garden of all again? I don’t know. I wouldn’t tell you if I did, folks. It would be anti-climactic, wouldn’t it?
Have fun, guys. I’ll write more soon.
8 Ekim 2011 Cumartesi
Hi folks,
Tons of stuff going on; and I don't really have time for fruitful creativity nowadays(I know, I know, pitiful.). I have been giving my Advanced Writing teacher papers with SAT words written on them for my weekly writings, so I don't really have any new good stuff. I do, however, want to keep this blog alive. Below is another old poem, I hope you like it. I'll be back with more creative stuff, more fun, more teenage pondering on the meaning of life(and more brackets)soon.
(Ah, the last line needs clarification: I wrote this poem around the time I played God (yeah, the one.)in a theater production at school.)
Some Blabbering Around About the Almighty HEADACHE
1
You are the pulse
of my head of bold iron
The pain, the suffering
of my endurance of glass.
2
You are the mighty storm
The gaze of Odin, harsh
In your dealings with me
frequently beheading my inner self.
3
You’re dizziness of functions,
And the dance of French verbs,
the womb’s fear,
the muscle’s death.
4
Never before someone
Had hugged me so tight
5
You’re my own eyebrows
piercing the skull
eating off the brain
drinking up the blood.
6
You’re the weight and price
Of a billion spotlights
The disgraceful smile
Of a teenager who “gods”.
Tons of stuff going on; and I don't really have time for fruitful creativity nowadays(I know, I know, pitiful.). I have been giving my Advanced Writing teacher papers with SAT words written on them for my weekly writings, so I don't really have any new good stuff. I do, however, want to keep this blog alive. Below is another old poem, I hope you like it. I'll be back with more creative stuff, more fun, more teenage pondering on the meaning of life(and more brackets)soon.
(Ah, the last line needs clarification: I wrote this poem around the time I played God (yeah, the one.)in a theater production at school.)
Some Blabbering Around About the Almighty HEADACHE
1
You are the pulse
of my head of bold iron
The pain, the suffering
of my endurance of glass.
2
You are the mighty storm
The gaze of Odin, harsh
In your dealings with me
frequently beheading my inner self.
3
You’re dizziness of functions,
And the dance of French verbs,
the womb’s fear,
the muscle’s death.
4
Never before someone
Had hugged me so tight
5
You’re my own eyebrows
piercing the skull
eating off the brain
drinking up the blood.
6
You’re the weight and price
Of a billion spotlights
The disgraceful smile
Of a teenager who “gods”.
3 Ekim 2011 Pazartesi
Elephant Graveyard
Twenty minutes. Nineteen. Eighteen. Soon the last bell of the week will ring, I'll rise from my purple armchair -this is a free period-, go to Boys' Dorm and change. I'll stuff dirty clothes, socks, underwear and sheets into my suitcase, pack my laptop and get on the midibus that'll take me to Harem Bus Station on the Anatolian side. A bus ride from there, a short walk to mom's work. Then we'll get in the car, she'll ride for fifteen minutes; and I'll be home.
The journey ahead of me, though tiresome even to put on paper, makes me happy. Not "cheerful" happy though. There is no trace of the strong, impulsive, joyous energy that the mere motion of going home usually gives me.
I haven't been home for almost two weeks now. My dorm bed sheets aren't clean anymore. I wore my last clean shirt today. I am running out of socks and underwear. These, while not too deadly problems -thank goodness for washing machines-; are reflecting my own spiritual and emotional condition with great precision: I feel tired and worn and..expiring. My eyes have dul lsemicircles of purple below them, my body is tired after running from one class to another to musical rehearsals to Model UN to prep study halls to a mandatory party last night (I am serious, it is one of the downsides of being a dorm prefect.); and not getting enough sleep or adequate nutrition at all. I feel mentally slowed down, generally unexcited and passive (which does shock me as I am not-so-slightly overenthusiastic normally). Hints of severe migrene headaches have come and gone for days. I'm constantly on the edge of getting ill, holding to whatever strength and health I had left with pure, desperate willpower. I am tired, tired, tired; and as I wrote once before, "bones of my rues ache".
***
I am home now; after a rainy, gray and tranquil journey. I ate my mother's food, I rested in my room. (I almost feel like mentioning I drank good Argentinian wine just for the sake of sounding sophisticated and cool but---whoops, I didn't just do that.)I am still tired and my mind is still very much blurred; but I am in my sanctuary now. I can let go an peacefully get sick. Just the way I like it.
I am home now. I am happy. Not "cheerful" happy, though. Happy like a very, very old elephant who after leaving his herd finally reached the elephant graveyard. Happy amongst the bones and spirits of his ancestors. Conclusively happy.
The journey ahead of me, though tiresome even to put on paper, makes me happy. Not "cheerful" happy though. There is no trace of the strong, impulsive, joyous energy that the mere motion of going home usually gives me.
I haven't been home for almost two weeks now. My dorm bed sheets aren't clean anymore. I wore my last clean shirt today. I am running out of socks and underwear. These, while not too deadly problems -thank goodness for washing machines-; are reflecting my own spiritual and emotional condition with great precision: I feel tired and worn and..expiring. My eyes have dul lsemicircles of purple below them, my body is tired after running from one class to another to musical rehearsals to Model UN to prep study halls to a mandatory party last night (I am serious, it is one of the downsides of being a dorm prefect.); and not getting enough sleep or adequate nutrition at all. I feel mentally slowed down, generally unexcited and passive (which does shock me as I am not-so-slightly overenthusiastic normally). Hints of severe migrene headaches have come and gone for days. I'm constantly on the edge of getting ill, holding to whatever strength and health I had left with pure, desperate willpower. I am tired, tired, tired; and as I wrote once before, "bones of my rues ache".
***
I am home now; after a rainy, gray and tranquil journey. I ate my mother's food, I rested in my room. (I almost feel like mentioning I drank good Argentinian wine just for the sake of sounding sophisticated and cool but---whoops, I didn't just do that.)I am still tired and my mind is still very much blurred; but I am in my sanctuary now. I can let go an peacefully get sick. Just the way I like it.
I am home now. I am happy. Not "cheerful" happy, though. Happy like a very, very old elephant who after leaving his herd finally reached the elephant graveyard. Happy amongst the bones and spirits of his ancestors. Conclusively happy.