Quiet Becoming
It’s August again. My hair isn’t quite back to its virgin color, and neither are my heart or lungs. It’s been months of opening up my computer and staring at a blinking cursor, months of me picking up a pen and staring at nothing but a blank piece of paper, but here I am, at four in the morning, typing again.That’s the thing about creativity: it comes and goes in so many ways, at whatever time and wherever you are.
The year’s almost over, and I haven’t done anything but wait. I don’t know what or whom I’m waiting for, but I am. To stare at the blinking cursor and have my words spiral in my brain and come out in a neat, fitted format that captures my mood has always put a smile on my face. I would like to say it’s shocking that I haven’t been writing much, even if it brings me happiness, but the truth is I don’t do much that brings me happiness.I look so much different than I did last August, and I’ve come to the realization that’s why I can’t seem to let my mind stand still. I’m scared when I look in the mirror and see an older version of myself that I’ve yet to see before. I’m maturing in ways that don’t seem right to the younger, sensitive, and more sarcastic girl I was.Sure, I’m still young. I have years ahead of me to do awful and beautiful things to myself and everyone I come in contact with. Everyone I touch, look at, talk to, breathe next to—they all see my emotions that appear on my face, emotions I’ve yet to learn to control. I would love to say the only way anyone could tell how I was thinking is for me to speak, but the expressions are stained on my face the way a pen will stain your blank piece of paper. I’ve gotten more sense and wit into my thick skull, and that I can be proud of. It’s tough trying to get anything through and making it a habit.
Though my responses to silly questions have dwindled, less from a silly answer and more to a glare and an “are you serious?” response. I can keep myself out of trouble with a few sarcastic comments, but that was never something I’ve worried about. I’ve become more cynical, humble, and, of course, meticulous about whomever I spend my time with, and I’m sure that’s the tone in my writing at the moment. I don’t believe I’ll go back to change this—make it happier, more hopeful? I feel how I’m supposed to feel now: exhausted and happy I’m writing. Even when I reread this after a couple of weeks, I can’t be mad at myself for how it turned out because this is how I felt at this very moment, and no one can take that away.