prose 2

everything in me seizes up when i walk by your desk. every time. i cursed the teacher who assigned you two rows in front of me midway through the term, bemoaning the loss of your mindless chatter to cut through the boredom. now i can’t celebrate it enough, that it is jim the new transfer student that has to sit next to an empty table 4 times a week. that at least i can sense someone else to my right in class. hearing the scratching of robert’s pen on paper might not be your rhythmic tapping, but neither is it not complete silence. if i don’t look up, i can fool myself for just a bit longer.

my grades sink. i don’t really care, because we committed to the same college, which everyone said was dumb and that we’ll never make other friends. well, i guess i’ll have to now. at least in five months i won’t have to stare down the minda-shaped-elephant-in-the-room every morning at seven. sometimes, i stay awake through the night just so i can guarantee that my brain won’t be able to process anything the next day, much less the concept forever. or loss.

you know what i’m pissed off about? that no one uses voicemails anymore. or that everyone uses snapchat and instastories instead of just recording videos that actually stay on your phone past 24 hours. because i didn’t know i would have to live on memories forever, minda, and i’ve been replaying those stupid voice messages we send each other when we’re too lazy to type too often. so often i know every hitch of your breath. its so stupid. do you think snapchat would send me the silly videos you sent me at 3am while cramming for your bio test if i just emailed them? they have to have your face saved in a server somewhere, right?

last year you tagged me in a facebook post you made when you were 14, talking about how you wanted to be a doctor. you said “HAHAHAHA @AMANDA ISNT THIS HILARIOUS REMEMBER WHEN I WASN’T GONNA BE A BROKE ENGLISH MAJOR”. forget about majoring in english, now you won’t even graduate from high school. how is any of this fair?

a/n: save me i don’t know what i’m doing someone teach me how to WEAVE

prose

in her ears, she had a teenage boy band singing about home, about foreign lands, about wanting people to be nearer than they are.

she felt that, slumped back, with one earbud in and the other dangling down. she had no desire to expend the energy sitting up would require. she wanted to hear boys crooning about the exact emotions she was feeling, she wanted to hear the unfamiliar sounds of bike bells and tram signals. she wanted to hear the unfamiliar tongue occasionally pass her, wanted to hear the water in the canal lapping away under her feet. she wanted to keep nursing this cheap coffee gone cold, she wanted to feel without thinking. she wanted to just be, and for some reason, watching the silver light glint off the small canal waves, she did.

maybe it was okay, in this strange, foreign place, to not feel at home.

forget the fact that she never felt otherwise anywhere. but in this moment? the displacement in her surroundings could only mirror the constant displacement she felt inside. so it was okay, if only for now. so there she sat, underdressed and overstressed, watchig the dusk set.

to not feel at home, and to not feel a home. if you don’t think quite too hard about it, they could almost be the same thing. not exactly, but almost. close enough, she guesses.

a/n: what! jenn is writing prose ?!?!?! yes but i have no idea how to make plot and scenes cohesive lol save me writing is so hard

an early Thursday morning, an ode to public transport

an early Thursday morning, an ode to public transport

this morning I lay in bed
awoken by my bladder
the lone motivator for my voluntary movement, these days
but I lay in my bed
and it was the early morning, mind you, the time when the city was alive but not quite awoken
where the masses stumbled under the greater influence of routine than of conscious individuality
although what is individuality but a matter of perspective and scope
but for the sake of the next 29 lines of prose
let’s assume that with enough similarities
individuals form a cohesive enough unity

and I lay in my bed
listening, to the sounds of this mass of a city
go about the beginnings of a truly ordinary day.
and I thought to myself
I have never heard the crickets sing, in woody forests
nor have I heard of a silence that, to hear my father say it, becomes so encompassing that it overwhelms your senses
that you cannot help but take notice of it
so look, I am 17
I was born in one city
and brought up in another
and this morning I find myself awake in a third
where my grandparents complain we live too close to the road
and the cars make too much noise
but I know of nothing else, and I want nothing more.

so I lay in my bed on this normal morning
and thought about how much
I love the sounds of this city
and how soothing they are to me.

then I closed my eyes on this average morning
and let the warm hubbub blanket me
the bells on buses ringing
the exhausting pipe poisoning
the tires, multiplied by friction, added the variable of tarmac, spat out the sound of resistance
these urban sounds – the most enthusiastic,
most comforting usher –
guide me to slip, gratefully, back into a settled slumber.

 

 
[a note: lil love song to big cities. love y’all]

who is your enemy

the ending of poems i did not mean to write

(I WAS GOING SOMEWHERE WITH THOSE OPENING STANZAS, I SWEAR. I JUST DID NOT KNOW WHERE AND SO NOW I AM HERE, A PLACE I DID NOT WANT TO BE, A PLACE I KNOW NAUGHT HOW TO GET OUT OF. SAVE ME. SAVE ME AND MY TERRIBLE ENDINGS.)

i find it hard to enthuse about the current news

title from a poem by ogden nash. highly recommended, btw. also, ranty personal ish blog post ahead haha

i cannot do this. jesus christ it’s 2:38am and i’m reading an nyt article about how trump is doing all these terrible things to sustainable energy and you can’t even talk about it because you’re so tired and they won’t listen so what good does it do. we can be better all we want but one asshole can come and bulldoze all our efforts away and how is that worth it? how is that even— why? is it money? because how much money to you want? how much money to you need to have?

on a separate not jenn ah aiyo i thought we were gonna do this anymore. b i thought we agreed to leave that all behind? yet here you are again. flustered, vulnerable, trusting. you’re so eager for friends on the same wavelength as you. you’re scrabbling for people who have the same (unconventional) values as you. didn’t we talk about this, when we talked about independence? loneliness is the 0 value on a sin graph; we’re gonna encounter it again and again and again. and how are you gonna learn how to deal with that if with each time you just say “it’ll tide over when i find a stopgap”? i’m trying really hard to be more positive about these things. cynicism is fucking tiring, thats what they don’t tell you. is it better than disappointment from hope? idk, & idk if i wanna find out.

can we just hit fast forward and get to the part where everything is comfortable?

what burns colours into you?

i have never felt less alive. i am a mockery of who i aspire to be. routine is comforting and great and all, but routine from mindlessness is absolutely stifling. i have never felt less engaged with all that i love- i have not seen art in so long, i have not sat through a hockey game in the longest of times, i have not discovered new music , i have not unearthed new creators, and instead i reread books i’ve read before in a desperate bid to find comfort and emotion. i have not written or created in so, so long. my mary oliver book is overdue because i have yet to find the energy to finish it, yet i refuse to return it unread, for that surely is a sign of defeat. a definite sign that paints out loud and clear: i no longer have time for art in this shadow of a life i have.

this mindless shuffle for greater achievements is unbecoming. this withdrawal from activities that stimulate you is embarrassing.

godamnit, jenn

once again, here’s the century-old argument between fate and freewill

reading old writings always strange, lol. like, i titled this a “century old argument”, but answered the unspoken question explicitly in the last verse. what childlike simplicity in the confidence in our bluster lmao 

once again, here’s the century-old argument between fate and freewill

They all say that fate is gracious that fate is kind,
okay but why, then, why,
is love for only the desperate, the innocent,
and the blind;

They all say that fate is impartial that fate is just,
okay but why, then, why,
do the rich live with diamonds the size of
the morsels of bread for the kids in the Jordan dust;

They all say that fate sees all that fate will know,
yet the zodiac killer is still unknown;
swindlers still live while the innocent die,
and Lucifer’s eyes will remain bright.

They will all say what they say,
while we will all do what we do;
and the truth is, my dear,
fate can’t decide anything for you.