First of all, I am tired beyond what words can say and I am ready for this semester to come to an end. Just four more weeks. I can do this.
On an almost completely different note, I wrote a little something today while I was in my American Lit. class. Believe me, I was trying REALLY hard to stay focused, but my mind kept wondering off to a million different things and somehow I found myself writing thoughts on paper instead of taking notes. I decided that even though what I wrote does not, per say, express or relate to my emotions towards my soldier, I still wanted to post it on here. That is because even though I don't know why or how I even wrote this, it is still something that a part of me felt the need to voice. So, here goes nothing...
In Black and White
Her white walls and her organized life, why do they hide in an all consuming darkness every night? She sees in them her life played out scene by scene and she discovers what's to come from looking in the past. If she had the courage to say "I need you," she wouldn't be where she is now. If madness had a color, it would be white, and if it had a body, it would be a lie again. She looks at the shadows on the wall, moving as if they are dancing with her silence. And she, who has been looking for something that could express her silent life, transforms the silence into words and gives them away to anyone who can explain how she will face this again. It's nothing important, she just lives in black and white. In her white walls and her organized life, her friends are right, because her weakness is her fear. If fear had a color, it would be black, if it had a body, it would be just like her. If they love you, they should find a way to tell you and if they don't, learn how to walk away! And though they all pity you for not having felt love, you pity yourself for knowing how it feels and not fighting for it: pity that no one has realized that your silence has been so loud all along. It's her choice not to risk anything; it's her choice to always "let it go" and the place where they think she's never been at is the place she hasn't been able to forget. And to whomever asks her why she always leaves, she replies with a "It's my choice," hoping that they'll be able to finally see how she is feeling. It's nothing important, she only lives in black and white.
On an almost completely different note, I wrote a little something today while I was in my American Lit. class. Believe me, I was trying REALLY hard to stay focused, but my mind kept wondering off to a million different things and somehow I found myself writing thoughts on paper instead of taking notes. I decided that even though what I wrote does not, per say, express or relate to my emotions towards my soldier, I still wanted to post it on here. That is because even though I don't know why or how I even wrote this, it is still something that a part of me felt the need to voice. So, here goes nothing...
In Black and White
Her white walls and her organized life, why do they hide in an all consuming darkness every night? She sees in them her life played out scene by scene and she discovers what's to come from looking in the past. If she had the courage to say "I need you," she wouldn't be where she is now. If madness had a color, it would be white, and if it had a body, it would be a lie again. She looks at the shadows on the wall, moving as if they are dancing with her silence. And she, who has been looking for something that could express her silent life, transforms the silence into words and gives them away to anyone who can explain how she will face this again. It's nothing important, she just lives in black and white. In her white walls and her organized life, her friends are right, because her weakness is her fear. If fear had a color, it would be black, if it had a body, it would be just like her. If they love you, they should find a way to tell you and if they don't, learn how to walk away! And though they all pity you for not having felt love, you pity yourself for knowing how it feels and not fighting for it: pity that no one has realized that your silence has been so loud all along. It's her choice not to risk anything; it's her choice to always "let it go" and the place where they think she's never been at is the place she hasn't been able to forget. And to whomever asks her why she always leaves, she replies with a "It's my choice," hoping that they'll be able to finally see how she is feeling. It's nothing important, she only lives in black and white.
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