5 a.m. writings

I took pictures of you at the party. When you gave me my new camera I don't think you expected to become my main subject.

Snap!

A shot of you about to knock on the door. You're biting your lip and cracking your knuckles.

Snap!

You're inside now, and you ran into an old friend from high school. Your cheeks are red and your smile is wide.

Snap!

A table full of food. You stand off to the left with a plate of cheese and crackers in your hand.

Snap!

You're leaning against a wall with a beer in your right hand. You gaze into the crowd eagerly, as if looking for someone. 

Snap!

Sitting on a green and red plaid couch. You've removed your black leather jacket now, and your second beer is in your hand. You're biting your lip once again.

Snap!

A girl is sitting next to you on the couch. She's blonde and wearing a little black dress. She seems animated as she tells you a story. Your eyes are aimed down at her breasts.

Snap!

The girl has her hand on your shoulder. You look nervous, a contrast to her sangfroid attitude. She's one of those girls who has it all in the bag.

Snap!

Now her hand is on your leg. You've loosened up. Maybe it's the beer. You're on your fourth. The top button of your blue flannel shirt is undone, and you can't remember why.

Snap!

The girl is standing up now, extending a hand towards you. You remain on the couch, self-consciously raising your beer to your lips. You think you know why she's asking you to go upstairs. Your mind is on another girl--a redhead with a camera.

Snap!

She's leading you up the stairs by your sleeve. You're clutching your leather jacket with your right hand; the railing with your left. She's on the stairs in front of you and her butt is at eye level. You do not look. Your head is turned around, scanning the crowd.

Snap!

A door. This picture is just of a closed door. I know you and Blonde are behind it. I don't know what you two are doing. And I wonder if you're hoping I'm safe, because I'm hoping you're safe.

I've Always Been This Way

On the first day of 6th grade, my first period of the day was advanced science. Our first assignment was to draw a picture of a scientist and to present it. Since I was the first in my row, I was one of the first kids to present.

I held up my drawing to the class and said "Most of you probably drew the stereotypical geek in a lab coat, but I drew an average person examining sap samples under a microscope, because that's what Mrs. Gross said that we would do this year. Therefore, a scientist is anyone who performs science--and that could be any one of us."

I was expecting my class to find it profound, but like normal 6th graders they all just stared at me. I was at least proud of myself, but I was sad to have not gotten at least the standard applause.

The next student to present was John LaVelle. He held up his poorly drawn scientist and began "Well I just drew a geek in a lab coat..." He and I exchanged a look after that, and I know he had appreciated my scientist.  His look said "I wish I had had that idea first. I don't think you're weird; I admire your intelligence."

All it takes is one person, even if they aren't outspoken about their opinion at all, to let you know that your eccentrities are appreciated after all. Just one person can make you feel like you aren't hated by your whole 6th grade class. Just one person can let you know that you aren't worthless.

An Incomplete Puzzle

Something's missing and I don't know what it is. I have this mindset of exactly how I want my life to be: how it was back when I was perpetually happy. I know I'll never get that back, not all of those aspects. Some I'm trying too hard to replace, others can't be replaced.

I still feel something missing. The outline of the puzzle is there, but there's no middle. Rather, it feels like the pieces are all there but they're just grey and it doesn't make a picture--they mean nothing.

That's why the missing piece to my perfect life puzzle must be myself.

Shaded

You are like a cloud lingering above me,
Meant for light protection from the harsh sun
And when I look up and see your light airy wisps, it's supposed to make me smile.
It doesn't.
What would really make me smile is if you allowed the sun to pass through and shine on my face.
And you would interest me more if you were thicker or darker.
Gather more moisture to add to this cloud.
Perhaps you were a black, looming storm cloud that produced lightning?
That would provide me more pleasant light and warmth than the lovely horror you fail to shade me from.