An individual’s personality is a multi-faceted diamond, and the friends she collects throughout life reflect a color within the prism -till she has a crayon box full of a wonderful variety.
My forest green sits near awesome orange in my mind, but they would have trouble with that arrangement in real life. Still, they would both rally to my aid if I were in need.
Also, I often envy my more flamboyant fluorescent friends, or even my dependable earth tones. I need to remind myself that I am simply my own shade in their collection, and can be content with what my solemn color adds to their life collages.
Today, I cried.
I cried after yelling -the sort of yelling that you know a parent shouldn’t do. There may have been jumping up and down.
Before that, I made waffles. See? If you’re an optimist, there was the positive you sought in this story.
Last night, I stayed up late coughing. The black death of all colds has finally stricken -a belated present from my husband. He’s still keeping part of it, actually. It’s been two weeks for him.
I don’t cry much, usually. I remove myself from thoughts or feelings. I need to not think, to not notice the wearing away. I cannot show emotion, or those little boundary-pushers walk all over me.
But, I’m tired. I’m sick. I’m sad.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” They all look concerned. They all want to hug me and comfort me. I think they need stoicism; they also need empathy.
It’s okay to cry.
Take the shaped thoughts of another and apply them to your mind. Sometimes they fill a gap neatly, completing a synapse with a satisfying *click* of thought current.
Many times the expressions instead fall to the floor, with the other un-matched logical laundry.
Years later, you are getting ready for a change. Pulling at an exposed piece, you disengage the idea from its neighboring detritus and hold it up.
“What a cute thought!” You exclaim. “I wish I’d tried this on years ago!”
Hello. I’m Chelsea. And, I am a sock-aholic.
It all started when I attended Fred Meyer’s Black Friday Sale. Suddenly, expensively inaccessible footwear was accessible. I can feel my toes twitching even now, just thinking about those boxes and boxes completely full -and at half the price.
They had all wool, cotton with moisture wick, and part spandex thigh-high business casual. They had toe socks (which we webbed-feeters can’t actually wear), nylons in packages instead of eggs, aloe-infused fuzzy cuddlewear, and patterned boot stockings.
I bought a pair of thick, wool hiking socks last time -after selecting sensible white pairs of cotton blend (super soft and stretchy!) for everyday, of course.
When I’m dressing, I reach for the alluring stripes, itching to put them on.
But, no -I bought these to put inside hiking boots. I did not buy them to put inside houses (and, in cars, outside, etc.)
Actually, that’s my other confession: I hurt the socks I love. I frequently take a lovely, thick pair out in the garage or down the street to the neighbor’s.
Most days I’m good, but sometimes the pull is too strong.
Socks speak to my sole.
Despite what they claim, I don’t think people actually enjoy sewing. Like childbirth, they only recall the hard-won joy of holding up their finished project.
While laboring, however, you hardly see a seamstress (or seamster) smiling. Grimaces don’t count.
Of course, I find smiling difficult with pins in my mouth, too.
We will all die.
We are only alive in the minds of others,
And the people we make from ourselves.
Through procreation, creation, and influence:
We will all live.
Who will you touch today, and what mark will you leave behind?
Sometimes I actually enter reality:
I step into the Total Perspective Vortex.
Emotions reeling, I make rash, irrational decisions
That are, of course, the rational thing to do.
I stumble around trying to mend the upheaval,
Trying to reason with unreasonable matters.
Ultimately, as always, I run out of time for closure.
I return to effective numbness, and dormant depression.
Too sad to be happy, too functional to drug.
At the time we meet a person, we have caught him mid-story -perhaps on page 322, paragraph 5. He has read all that came before because it is his life, but you have not. You are only looking at that page, and mentally writing your own thoughts entirely for pages 1-321. You’ve even supplied your own prologue, prequels, and alternate series set in the same world.
I recommend this approach for someone who will likely take advantage of you. You may be three hundred pages in; but know, from other stories of scowling street stalkers, that caution would be wise.
That aside, let’s remember that a new person is a new chance for both in the encounter. He and we are perusing people, and the future has not been written yet.
When a person makes a child, there is at least a small part of the father and the mother in him. These pieces are not always the best ones, but I love how they suddenly sparkle in the light of conversation or in that left-side dimple smile.
I love talking to an aunt with the same laugh as her brother and the same nervous smile as her sisters. I enjoy seeing a child’s expressions -then, meeting her parents and noting that same crinkle at the corner of the eyes or similar hand gestures when outlining a point.
We’re like a stone formed from the pressures of life, with bits of our ancestors glinting here and there. That is our makeup, and our formation overall depends on the loving people who raise us, interact with us, and marry us.
Where do you begin a story? What phrase, word, sentence, or dirty limerick will catch the erstwhile book-glancer and make him keep going?
Did I do it right?
I am certain there is a perfect formula. My English professor said so, when we spent time going over this best-selling author or that brilliant philosopher.
Will you stay: a paragraph, a page, a chapter, till the end?
I followed The Formula. I avoided cliché and outright plagiarism. I followed the advice of experts, books, neighbors, and my mother.
Did you love my story?
My mother said she liked it. Or, she said, “I’m proud of you, dear.” I’m sure that means the writing was good as well.
Was it enough to share it with others? Read again? Become a bestseller?
I’m going to be famous.