Well...
That’s what I say to myself when I
can’t think of any other way to express my complete disgust with, really,
anything of sorts.
Black and white- the very colors my
life seems to revolve around these days. My mind is full of twenty- six letters
and innumerable words, but my fingers are unable to move a pen in a way that
makes the ink form my thoughts onto paper.
The rain quietly knocks on my
window pane and leaves behind bitter tear- stains as I observe the grey world
outside my little box of a home. Behind me, Pond arches her back and curls her
duster- like tail outwards. She delicately places one paw in front of the
other, and leans her head in towards my outstretched hand.
Darn cat, I think. Her blue eyes
look searchingly into my own, almost as if she’s questioning my sanity. I had
sat at my computer, journal in one hand and pen in the other, for the majority
of my Friday night, attempting to write something- anything. But I couldn’t
think of one thing, not one, that was worth wasting my time writing about. I
was frustrated, I was tired, and I was really not feeling this whole
“collegelifeisthebomb” thing at the moment.
I observed the books strewn at
random across the jean quilt that lay on my bed. In between their pages lay
romance and heartache, death and life, love and loss, mystery and intrigue, curiosity
and boredom. My eyes were sore from skimming over the printed words again and
again in my desperate search for something similar to that of inspiration. I
wanted to find things, explore, discover. I wanted an epiphany of sorts, but I
was standing on the edge of a broken bridge with a spark of hope that I could
still cross over to the other side. What the other side had to offer to me, I
really had no idea. Maybe it offered sympathy, compassion, or just an
explanation.
I needed someone to tell me
something I didn’t already know.
What I really needed was a sign- not
the miraculous kind, but the literal kind. The kind of sign that hangs in the
window of a store and blinks neon red lights.
