Stuck.

It was beautiful outside and what was I doing? Stuck. I was stuck inside all day working on a big assignment for work at a desk. A gloomy desk in the corner. I stared at the pages of The Pleasure of the Text, written by Roland Barthes sitting beside my keyboard. My eyes met the words, "“I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.” Yeah, you know what was seducing me? Definitely not this writing assignment, but this beautiful day shining through the giant glass window in front of me. This was not where I thought I would be or what I thought I would be doing five months ago. I could see the city, the people on the street enjoying this beautiful day in New York. Ok, focus. I stared at my computer, but no words came to mind. There was only one word that I could think of, stuck. I was stuck inside, while everyone was out, roaming the streets of the city and I was just stuck. 1 o'clock... 2 o'clock... 3 o'clock... tick tick tick. The clock was ticking but time was not moving. Was this day ever going to end? I thought of how he used to take me to Central Park on days like this with a cooler, two cups and a soccer ball. We would drink sangria and kick the ball around in the light of the beautiful day, just like we had done growing up. It looked like it could have been one of those days, but there was no way that was going to happen  because I was stuck. I was stuck inside and stuck alone, without him; and he was never coming back. 4 o'clock... 4:01...4:02.... "COME ON!" I accidentally said out loud. The intern turning the corner gave me a look. "Sorry..." I said. And stared at my computer. The only thing written on the screen was my name. 4:30... 4:40... 4:50... 5 O'CLOCK! I dashed out of the office, jumped on the elevator, and hit ground lever before the clock had time to hit 5:02. My hand pushed the door open and I had a huge smile on my face. And then, that smile faded. "My face was getting red, and heat is rising in my cheeks. It's so damn humid out and the mosquitoes were ravenous." So much for a beautiful day... I was once again stuck. Stuck in the sticky humid city... stuck without him... and stuck with the disappointment of the day.

http://cycenewriting.blogspot.com/2012/10/juggle-master.html

Spray Can

"My arms are dirty because I don't know how to use a spray can." An array of colors were everywhere, black, white, blue, red, yellow, green, you name it. The spray painted plastic tarp spread over everything in my tiny studio apartment. I stepped back and stared at my master piece and smiled. It was almost tiring using my cheek muscles because it had been a while since I had smiled. Why had I not smiled? It was a combination between his leaving and my loneliness; but somewhere between the lack of sleep and tears, I had found time to paint, or well, spray paint. I had tried something new and it felt great. Maybe that was the key to recovery from heartbreak. Jumping out, taking a chance, trying something new. I lifted the spray can and continued to spray, and once again... a smile shone big and bright across my face.

http://roundwon.blogspot.com/2012/10/painted-lady.html

Sunday Morning

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. The heat from the New York air and sun were seeping through the blinds. I threw the covers off and stared at the ceiling. Was it ever going to get better? Was I ever going to stop missing him? I look to my left at a stationary figure. He was tall. The muscles in his back flexed as he began to wake and turn over. "Goodmorning." He said. I just smiled and rose from the bed, walking towards the small kitchen only seven feet from where he lay. "Coffee?" I asked. He nodded. He had dark hair and mysterious eyes. He mildly reminded of John Dillinger in Public Enemy. A mysterious man of power like Victor in Mumbo Jumbo; my eyes met the book that sat on my side table. He could be anybody. I didn't even know his name. It was then that I heard it. A buzz buzz buzz--pause. Then again, buzz buzz buzz--pause. I looked to my left only to see a small fly propped on the cabinet. I recalled the time that he, now my ex-boyfriend, had dove across that same kitchen to smash a fly much like the one I was staring at. I walked around the counter to grab one of my sandals that was on the floor. And then... SMASH! "It's guts now replaced what was the fly on the wall. I turned around and looked at the lazy stranger boy and said, 'You can go now.'"

http://llluminateyoursoul.blogspot.com/

 

http://tinyurl.com/buj4uf8

One Fine Day

One Fine Day

As I walk down 86th Street, I reach the west end of Central Park. It's a beautiful day and the streets are filled with tons and tons of people of all shape, size, and color. The bright green leaves of the trees are glistening in the sunlight, still wet from the sun shower that morning. I can smell the smog and grime of the city, yet something about it makes me happy to be there. I walk to the center of the park and sit beneath a large common bald cypress tree overlooking a pond. I lay down and gaze at the sky and everything seems to be perfect. I close my eyes and think to myself: I can't believe I am here. This dream of mine, my life, all coming together at once. "I'm so far. From all of it. It's...exhilarating, frightening, and it's a relief. I'm on my own." I open my eyes and take in a deep breath of the summer air. It will be fall soon and that's when it will all begin. Everything I've ever dreamed of and everything I have worked for, it is finally here at last.

http://eveningswiththeunknown.blogspot.com/

My Home.

A home. When people refer to "their home" most are talking about where they are physically living. Where they keep their belongings and go to sleep. Somewhere they sit and think and dream and go for a place of comfort. Maybe where their parents live or where they claim that they are from. My idea of what a home is defined to be is a little different. Some may agree, and many probably won't. I know this. But my true home is not where I live. It is not where I go to sleep. It is not where I keep my belongings. It is quite simply, where I am supposed to be. Somewhere I can close my eyes and go to in my mind after a long day. This home of mine is my escape from the world and I am at peace. This home is a good home, a happy home, a home where I can do anything I set my mind to. My home is busy streets. Smoggy city air. People of every nation wandering the streets. My home is hailing cabs in the rain and standing on a small subway platform. My home is not what people would normally generalize as a home but it makes me happy. It assures me that all the work I am doing, everything obstacle that I encounter, and everything I have and will achieve in order to accomplish my goals and my dreams, will one day actually take me to my home. The place where I am supposed to be. The place where I belong.