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.