Some moments lend themselves particularly well to small illustrations - vignettes, character sketches, impressions hastily captured. There was one, almost two weeks ago now, that seemed worthy of such an effort. Interestingly, however, it revealed itself to be entirely effortless. Not like the attempt to capture a dream before it flees upon waking or to recall an unimportant person or event upon being directly confronted about it. It was vivid, easily recorded (if not so easily shared). There is much more to this scene, but now is not the time. Not yet.
The tall man was a stranger. No, not a stranger, not exactly. His name was familiar, a vague impression emerging from a decade-old teenage haze, half-remembered moments. But nothing about him, standing with her in the whiskey-and-cigarette fog, seemed to fit into the gaps. His eyes were a pale, clear seawater - hard to look directly into - the kind of thing she would have remembered. And he used them to unsettling effect, never averting them, using them to draw her in. He was the calm spot in the alcoholic nostalgia and anxiety that pervaded all of her experiences of the night; a warmth at once familiar and entirely novel. A safe haven in the tumult of forced small talk and occasionally uncomfortable reminiscing. She did the only thing that felt right and greeted him as an old friend.
INELOQUENT.
Musings, few and far between, from the girl with a broken heart.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Welcome. You know who you are.
To my pen pal,
You have arrived. Contained within are thoughts, stories, words, and emotions that, despite being published on the Internet, have been intentionally shared with almost no other humans. I apologize for the other men who will certainly appear in these writings and for the emotions that are evident in a lot of them - I know you, like me, shy away from the vulnerability of feeling (or admitting to feeling).
There's something terrifyingly intimate about you reading my words. It strips me down to a nakedness that's much more profound than the kind where you can see all my tattoos and scars. But here they are and here you are. Tread carefully.
-A.
You have arrived. Contained within are thoughts, stories, words, and emotions that, despite being published on the Internet, have been intentionally shared with almost no other humans. I apologize for the other men who will certainly appear in these writings and for the emotions that are evident in a lot of them - I know you, like me, shy away from the vulnerability of feeling (or admitting to feeling).
There's something terrifyingly intimate about you reading my words. It strips me down to a nakedness that's much more profound than the kind where you can see all my tattoos and scars. But here they are and here you are. Tread carefully.
-A.
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