Shopping list for the future:
x New shorts
x New boots
x New makeup primer and setting spray
x New tupperware
× White rice, mozzarella cheese, sea salt butter, pink salt, lettuce, cucumber slices, black pepper, chicken breast, Italian dressing
× Whatever else
When I was a kid, my mother didn't read to me. She was always groggy, tired. I work a double and I get home and now you want me to read to you?. No one was going to read to me so I learned to read to me. You can do that, you can read the story out loud and if the story is good enough, you transcend the limits of your ego. You split. You become the reader and the listener, the child and the adult. You beat the system. You beat your doom. Reading saved my life when I was a sweaty little kid and it saves my life again today because I always carry a book.
That passage has always spoke volumes to me since the very first time I laid my eyes upon it. A neglectful parent, abusive. Escapism to cope with the lack. The connecting and relating to characters. Mimicry of traits, whether it be because they're found complimentary or simply out of sheer adoration.
When I was younger, my nose could almost always be found in a book. The most magical, mundane places were found in pages. Six hundred pages? No problem, just please keep my attention. Let me devour then look for more. Let me escape into somewhere where I "belong."
Too awkward to fit in with the more popular clique, too nerdy to fit in with the nerds. Not ambitious enough to make a sports team proper despite have done so many. Tennis. Soccer. Basketball. Track. Swim. Ice skating. Volleyball. Dance. Karate. Cheerleading. I even tried my hand at hockey at one point.
I find that my skills lie with putting words down and letting them pour out of me. I'd say flow but that isn't quite right. It's like a dam breaks. But yet.. there's truly so little to say that I often find myself rendered near speechless when it comes to it.
I can't even begin to remember how many books I've read. The tides of memory have swept that away into the unfathomable abyss. I can say with confidence that Romeo and Juliet has been read about thirty-five times however. Various renditions, both the simple script for the stage play and proper novelizations. I suppose that was my ideal envisionment of love growing up. Something so unquestionably pure yet corrupt that it's worth dying for. Love at first sight. Could it be considered lust? Perhaps. But when it transcends social norms and acceptable societal boundaries and there's still yearning, praying to the moon and stars for just one word.. isn't that sweet? Isn't it magical?
By no means is Romeo and Juliet something that should be properly replicated. However, I do reckon there's a reason it's such a beloved romantic tragedy.
Sometimes I'm a little frustrated because I'll look in the mirror and my reflections won't agree with me. Pure distortion but the mirror is perfectly fine. It's me who's distorted, me who who blurs. The pixels on my screen are more real than the faces looking back at me.
Somedays I don't even recognize the person in the mirror looking back at me.
I can grasp at air but that's just it - it's air and that's something intangible.... but you're something tangible, right?
