 NOTE: This entry is part of my "Personification Series" where I personify the days of the week into people.As morning screams through the window of the bedroom, she groans, cotton-mouthed, into the puddle of drool on her pillow.
Peeling herself from her sheets, she looks to be hung over on sleep. Her eyes barely register the alarm clock or the upset cat that stretches from his nest of dirty laundry on the foot of the bed. Her hair is a mess, barely tied in a bun at the back of her head--fly away hairs escape in each direction. She rolls out of bed with a yawn in grubby sweats that beg to be nestled beneath a blanket with a cozy side of Netflix. "Coffee," her sleep-drenched voice cracks out, but is it a question or a demand?
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 NOTE: This entry is part of my "Personification Series" where I personify the days of the week into people.The coffee has kicked in and he knows it by the extra jolt in each harried step he takes down the boulevard. He dresses in a pressed, straight-lined suit and is sure about each movement he makes and every moment of his day. He is alert and ready for anything. He moves about in razor sharp movements, each ounce of energy expended is budgeted. He is direct as he gives straight forward directions on his cell phone. So assured of himself and his day, that he multi-tasks with no problems as he grabs his coffee to-go cup before disappearing in a cab. There is no missed stair, unaccounted for crack, unseen curb, or stray action from a pedestrian in his path. No sir. He is prepared today. Today he can take on the world.  NOTE: This entry is part of my "Personification Series" where I personify the days of the week into people. She is a mother, juggling all the daily activities and appointments.
She moves in and out of the family mini van, her arms always loaded with bags, groceries, and errands. By now she has cleaned all the bathrooms, done eight loads of laundry, has thrown dinner in the slow cooker, taken Fluffy for a grooming (and at least three walks around the well manicured lawns of her neighborhood) and has dropped the oldest child off at violin practice. With her stomach clawing for a warm meal and her nerves craving a glass of wine, she continues her harried day with a smile plastered on her face. As she watches the twins play soccer from the sidelines, handing out sticky, juicy orange wedges from a plastic baggie that she had prepared earlier that day, she relishes in these few moments of yelling, screaming, from the inside out.  NOTE: This entry is part of my "Personification Series" where I personify the days of the week into people. It's a dark and shadowy corner of the bar. It's the kind of place that hides in the corner of well-lit streets. You might pass it on a night on the town and remark, "I never noticed this place before," or "Is this a new place?" but decide not to go in.
He sits in the corner on a worn leather bar stool that's held together with a piece of battered duct tape. He doesn't care. His old, worn clothes are the least of his worries and his unkept, oily hair is standing in all directions. It came from running his hands apprehensively through it whenever his glass was empty. Anxiously, his leg jumps as he watches patrons drink from their frosty mugs and long necked bottles. He licks his lips, hoping to get a leftover taste from his last drink, knowing his pockets are empty. Hungry eyes dart from sudden movements near the juke box to the flashy images that enter through the door. When that happens the sunlight slices through the dark place like a knife in cream pie. He turns away from it and searches. Busy eyes always searching. He is eager for his next fix.  NOTE: This entry is part of my "Personification Series" where I personify the days of the week into people.The queen of our high school.
Her perfectly glossy blonde hair and wrinkle-free skirt, glides down the hallway like she owns it. Everyone stops to look and steal a glance at her perfectly coordinated clothes, the mirage of a perfectly made up face, and her graceful, dance-like gait. If one was lucky, they'd get a smile of perfectly perfect teeth framed in might have been lipstick or natural born beauty. If you were really fortunate, you'd get a wave and an inquisitive "How are you?" followed by plans involving her serene highness that night. She seems infallible, goddess-like; the highlight of our mundane, high school lives.  Tip-toeing around your feelings blisters my feet
like a seasoned ballet dancer--I keep coming back not because of the pain, but of the obsession-- the devotion to always be right. The thudding of my heart during another argument keeps to the beat of our relationship as we dance around more subjects, yelling and ignoring each other in the hallways.  *This scene was edited out of my Song for You series between Galvin and Christie. “Final boarding call for Flight 623 to Chicago O'Hare International Airport at gate H8.”  Every day is the same.
At times it's monotonous, but it's all I have to hold onto. Each day I'm collecting bricks and carefully building this wall to hold myself up. There are moments, when I'm drenched in sweat and moments away from collapsing in exhaustion, when I look out over the edge and think how easy it would be to stumble and fall. How easy it would be to carelessly place my foot at a certain angle and fall. Fall so hard and so deep... because that would be a lot easier than having to build this wall to keep myself up. Then I snap out of it. If I keep working hard at this back-breaking agonizing work, it will be worth it in the end. I would be better in the end. Going through this struggle and strife will make me stronger. This is what I repeat to myself as I slap on another row of bricks to the drying cement. And so I pick up another brick and keep building.  As I said in an earlier blog post, "Song for You: A Fateful Melody" (Book 1) began a looooong time ago. I actually worked on it as part of my Capstone in college. That being said, it has undergone years of editing. That means it has been gutted and reframed several times. Below is the original prologue I wrote in high school. Despite anything that I’ve said or that’s ever been said about us, there wasn’t a moment when I didn’t love him. Even later, when things… unraveled, there was still a tiny frayed thread of love in me, even though I have never admitted it until now. I guess it’s true when they say that you’ll never forget your first love, because I never forgot him—and Lord knows I’ve tried! I mean, how can you forget about someone who helped pave the winding path that led to who you are today, when a memory of that person appears on a large, flashy billboard every fifty miles?  It was a time of distress and hatred. People argued, back-stabbed, stole, and hoarded. During such turmoil, it was hard to believe that anything good could be born out of it. And yet it was during this time of darkness and hatred we meet Rose.
Some people argue that Rose wasn't his real name--that maybe he was a woman hardened by the war and lost more than her femininity. Others believe he adapted the name to promote Chaos. Me? I believe it's a metaphor to RISE ABOVE all else and stay true to yourself. He rose... and one day so shall I. |
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