Hope is a matter of place and time

The day is beautiful--reminds me of August when I first came. It reminds me of the first time I listened to In Circles by Sunny Day Real Estate.

The sky's a weak blue and the river's a pale green. It's unbelievable that this is my life, here in academia.

I stare at the pictures that I took during December, at the marina: boats became dark shadows--when caught through the lens--circling the diamond waves. And there were gray rocks where the salt water splashed and sunk into the cracks and crevices.

It takes me many seconds to reach perfection when I pick up the camera, or when I pick up the pen--many seconds. At one point, if all that time were to be added up, it would certainly constitute an entire lifetime: A lifetime of perfection can be reached through patience.

I walk through the hall to get to class with a light green skirt that has a bow on the side, and high-heeled shoes with a lace, green ribbon that wraps around the ankle. Boys stare and girls do, too, only I see envy the color of my skirt in the latter, and I feel it penetrating me. Part of me delights in knowing that I'm prettier, but part of me hates being hated--being noticed is a double-edged sword.

The road and sidewalk beyond my window are bathed by the dry sun. It's fitting to see dried blood in the sidewalk. Or, to head nowhere in particular. I'm curious about these things: about people who have nowhere to go and no horizon to embrace.

Hope is a matter of place and time--it depends on where you are and how pretty the weather is.

aeka at 9:49 a.m.