Inertia

She typed away idly, sites visited in a ritual. The same repetition every ten minutes, hoping for updates. When the waking mind was far away, content to wallow while the rest of it looked for anything to pass the time.

Why, though?

When there were books to be read, people to be visited. She could have perused philosophy, broadened her thinking. She could have picked up the book she'd placed away for when she had more free time. She could have done all the work that she'd piled up, or gone to the gym, or drawn something, written anything.

Yet she chose to sit and wither away, a husk attempting to find entertainment in places where everything was hollow. Her mind hibernating, because there was nothing to fuel it.

Maybe tomorrow, she would push ahead. 

Arrival

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The airport is stuffed with people: sweaty and irritated with lines, customs, luggage. 

“Put on your jacket,” my dad commanded.

“It’s too hot.” It is. “I’ll put it on outside.”

His answering glare had lost none of its potency with time (perhaps I wasn't as grown-up as I'd thought?). I sullenly pulled on the heavy jacket. Its stifling heat was reminiscent of hot Indian monsoons, with none of the joy.

We finally stepped outside, and the cold bit through me. Wisps of fluff fell from the sky; I’d never seen snow before. I stood there for a moment, wondering what this new place would bring. The thought blew away with the falling flakes, lost in the urgency of wiping an already running nose.

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Notes:

I wrote this three years ago for a 'Haiku'

(as in, a short piece

not an actual haiku

with all of its constraints)

assignment for English class. I don't like it at all, really, even though I revised it upon my rediscovery. The original was worse. Bah.

Twitchy Fingers and a Silent Mind

Could it be a lack of imagination?

I'm not entirely sure why I never have anything to write. I like to do it, and I want to improve - but I never have anything to say. I occasionally have a glimmer of inspiration I seize upon fervently, but it's only ever realized (to a reasonable degree of completeness) once in every fifty, hundred instances.

The story of the two lovers was written about a year ago, when I woke up with the idea half formed in my head. It had no relevance to my life at the time, was indeed something I thought would only remain fantasy. Not because I was despairing about my romantic prospects, but more because I never considered myself to be a sappy sort of person, and that story is mired in sappiness. It was entirely a random, alien thought with no apparent inspiration, and because I was avoiding math class I followed up on it.

I'm stuck now because I promised someone important a story for them. But I have nothing. Well, I know what I'd like to do - I just don't think I have the writing skills to do properly. I suppose I should try nonetheless, and see how far I get before I quit (which is what happens the other ninety-nine times I have an idea, because the execution simply isn't perfect  enough.)

Sometimes, I wake up with these.

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The air held the crisp of winter, free of the muggy druggedness of spring that should have already sunk in. The bit of land we were lying on was miraculously both green and dry, incongruous amidst patches of obstinate snow and shriveled grass.The cold was setting in, arms and face going slowly numb. My right hand was outstretched, pinkie linked with his. The point of contact between our intersected joints was the only place I had feeling. A tingling warmth had settled in the juncture; it somehow reached up to my face and formed the shadow of a smile.

Our breaths released themselves in puffs of vapor, ephemeral little clouds floating up to a blue sky that held none. Mine lingered above my eyes for a barely-there second before dissipating, an instant where I could see my little cloud against an infinite sky. A thought danced through my head

-i think this as close to heaven as i can get-

and his name fell unbidden from my mouth.

He turned his face and met my eyes, question reflected in his.
(I love you.)

His smile was more than sunshine, wrapping its warmth around me in me through me. His response came on puffs of clouds
(I love you too.)

And his mouth was slight heat, a quick kiss to the back of my hand. He settled our arms back down to the indents they'd left, face turning back to the sky. Now he too wore a soft smile and the wayward thought returned

-as close to heaven as i can get.-
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Someone's Chelle

My name is Michelle, and this introduction is worlds away from the one I had when I first started a blog here. I deleted it upon my rediscovery of Blogger, as it was full of teenage angst and (I like to think) I've come a long way since then.Very briefly:
I'm currently a sophomore in college.
I am happy.
I am, to the best of my limited knowledge in the matter, in love.
I hate saying that because it makes me sound like a adolescent cliche.
I also love saying it because what the fuck, I'm in love.
I lack discipline and willpower in a lot of aspects of life.
I'm very insecure about my body.
I love the fries my mess hall serves.
This blog is for me, I highly doubt anyone (excepting ad bots) else will ever read it.
More than anything else, I want to spend my life traveling.