Rewrites

The week seems to go on and yet the days drip slowly down the calendar like molasses. With great disdain I find myself in a cycle: school, home, procrastination, and, finally, homework. Then whatever time I have left goes to pondering. Of this pondering there are a few different forms, mainly pondering through, reading, writing, music, and empty thought. Each one is pretty self-explanitory. Now I sit, in the procrastination/boredom stage, eating Fritos and typing whatever nonsense enters my mind. In Spanish class the other day, I learned that the frontal lobe is not fully developed until the mid-twenties. Therefore, in the place of the source of most logic and decision making in the brains of teenagers, there is a ball of mush. The decision making process is derived, in the meantime, by the part of the brain which influences emotion, things that drive you. Which is the reason teens are so brash in the majority of their actions. Now that I understand, I'm wondering how it will help any. Rethink as I may, there is literally no way that my thoughts can run fully on the logicality of the situation. Am I therefore trapped in the cycle because the only thing that occupies the decision making of my mind is dull boredom and hopelessness? From being at school, of course. Happiness comes in meager amounts at the worst of times. This is a depressing fact of life, and yet another reason why I cannot stand being grouped in with these children. I declare that I will not deign myself to be this. And yet I cannot overcome what I am. I'm going to think it over, Fritos, hot tea, and a thick hardcover on the wisdom of China to be my pondering materials...

Much Confusion,

Adeline

I Fell On Black Days...

Today was a good day, in aspect. I found my notebook last night, and couldn't stop writing all day (even though I was in school, so I don't know if that's neccessarily a good thing...), I'm going out to buy a new purse later, and I've been reading an old Shakespeare favorite, Macbeth. It's by far one of William's best, which I enjoy deeply. As far as the story: the main characters' names are Christina and Jack. Christina is, essentially, me, and the story is written from her point of view. And Jack is the friend. The relationship between the two becomes extremely personal; they are each other's diary as the story nears its close. But as of now, it's just an alliance. It's slowly progressing into this deep friendship, and along the way, Jack faces intervention, a trip to the ER, and the realization that he must confront his problems in rehabilitation. But before he makes it that far, he dies. I've decided that he ODs, on heroin or something equally as potent. His final goodbye to Christina is a poem. I want to leave it with readers that he knows he may die, and make it unclear as to if this was his intention or not. By leaving something behind for Christina, one may think that he wanted it to be the last she ever heard from him. But then in reading the poem itself, I want readers to reconsider Jack's intentions. As for my own insight, it is unclear if he did or did not commit suicide just yet. I'm only the writer; I don't know him too well at this stage.

Jack's Goodbye: Black Tears

We all cheat
One last time
Before a diet,
Right?
That's why there's
Fat Tuesday
Right before Lent.
So what I'm doing,
It's not so wrong.
Just one last high,
Before I stop,
Before I quit cold turkey.
One last hit,
I can use to warm me,
In long, cold nights
Of the anguish of withdrawal
So soon to come.
Then, Christina,
My inspiration,
The lightness
Which saved me
From the dark
I loved to bring
Upon myself,
You don't have to
Be ashamed
To let me call
The circle
Of your arms
My home.

The part that I want to make the readers think the most is the one where he says, "Then, Christina.../You don't have to/Be ashamed." For, if there is a "then," does that not mean that there will be a next time? But then, is he really addressing Christina in her form? What if the next time is in the next life? Because he calls her his light; is he hoping she'll light his way to see her again in some other way?
It cannot be known.

Black Tears

Inspired by a study hall session full of emo-prejudice conversation (lol), a new story title arose; Black Tears. Apparently, it's the "coolest title for a story ever," as stated by the guys in that class. As ridiculous as it sounds, I started writing out what the story could be about. The cover would have to be an opera mask with one black tear rolling down - another suggestion from the guys. I've written sad stories before, but never one that limited. I didn't want to go with your average high school girl story about a misfit attitude that turned around in the end with the help of good friends you never really realized you had. So I looked at it from a very personal point of view. The cover was real, and depressing. So what was real to me that depressed me the most? My very first thought was the series of recent discoveries I'd made about some of my best guyfriends; they're all on drugs. It really hurt that I couldn't change them, that they didn't really care. So I went with it. Within minutes, I had in front of me a full storyline; girl meets boy, boy is on drugs, and the whole story is in poetry form. The story was really playing out on Thursday; got about seven or eight pages down, front and back, in a brand-new 3-subject notebook. As of now, the notebook is lost DDDD: and I haven't a clue where in my disaster-zone bedroom is may be. I've quite taken to the belief that the harder you look for something, the more lost it gets, so I made the idiotic decision to not look for it. At all. But I'm dying away, for there is no greater agony than that of an unwritten story trapped inside. So i shall tear apart my bedroom until I find it; because Black Tears is about to take a twist...a deep one.



*Happy Writing,*

Addie