Beginning of a Story??

“Where’s your story to go? Little one, why don’t you love? Why don’t you live?”

“Because it’s hard…”, she whispered from lips numbed by sleep. She dreamt  of a hand gently caressing her forehead, feeling neither maternal or paternal in nature.

“Hard?”, the hand paused. Her brow furrowed and her limbs stirred under the sheets, she did not want the hand to stop and let the ease it brought slip away.

Continuing its long gentle strokes across her brow, the slender frame spoke again.

“I suppose, yes, things such as that are hard.”

Blue tinted lips pursed in thought, it paused.

“You, my dear , are to smart for your own good. Sadly, this is what hinders you.”

The pale hand stopped its course across the girls brow and descended to the side of her face and rested there. Only a thumb gently sweeping across her cheek brought her comfort in the midst of her slumber now.

“Some events will occur without prompt others wait for you to set them in motion, such is the world.”

As she woke the next morning she was troubled by the remaining wisps of the nights dream. Vaguely recollecting the feeling of two hands cupping the sides of her face with a pair of warm lips resting gently upon her own. Her only thought on the matter being,

“I really need to stop eating before I go to bed.”

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Thoughts in the Apartment

As she walked up steps to the lonely little apartment she cursed the idea the longing that held her thoughts in sway. How could she prep for her future when all she could do is think about what the future could be? In her head she romanticized the lonely intelligent young woman trope and could nothing but hope her life would be brightened by some deus ex machina. Thinking about the future helped her escape form the present but was counter productive in every way possible. She was self sabotaging herself and was fully aware of it, but couldn’t figure out how to escape the damning hell cycle that was perpetuated by herself.
Dropping her bag by the door, she stepped on the heel of her shoe to peel her foot from inside and wobbled to the other foot as she fought for balance. The black scourge on the carpet opened its mouth and all but meowed at her. She had adopted the cat weeks ago and dubbed her Maggie. In the pound she had been sweet, loving, and SILENT. As soon as they got home the cat meowed just to hear herself talk and sounded like she smoked three packs a day. The sweet and loving part was a constant, but was not reciprocated when she pawed her people in the face at three o’clock in the morning just for the attention.
“How’s it going Magsters?” She received a guttural meow in response.
“I see you’ve cut down on the packs. It’ll do a world of good to your lungs.” She commented as she scratched under the cat’s chin. Laying down next to the cat on the beige carpet she mused about life in general.
“Everything that’s not human has it easy. All they have to think about surviving or just being and not thinking. Buddha had it right, just do your own thing and cut all worldly connection and just focus on being and less thinking. Maybe I should quit everything and become a monk in the Himalayas.” Rolling over on to her stomach she sighed. Spending her off days trapped in a creamy beige box was tiring. The day would speed by in a matter of minutes while she binged watched episodes of Gilmore Girls. She knew it was a depressing way to go about life and felt bitterly jealous every time she saw her best friend doing things with her life. Clara was everything that she was not. Clara was a tall, red headed, blue eyed, amazon woman with a will of steel that goes to a para military school, majored in international business, took nineteen units a semester, worked two jobs, made deans list, and had a Viking of a boyfriend. It was easy to feel insignificant in relation to her.
Deciding, in her few moments of better judgment, not to wrap herself into a cocoon of sadness she got up and made her way to the bathroom to take a hot shower.

Walk From the Park

The tips of her fingers and toes were chilled to the bone. She noted that her nose was numb and wondered if it was a rosy pink like they described in romance books.

Her one and only someone, her partner, her soul mate would come jogging through the fall gloom and confess his unbridled love for her. It would have been the classic tale of how they butted heads and argued all of the time but he loved her for it.

The deepening chill seizing her fingers brought her back to the dim reality that was her life. Keeping her pace slow as she walked back from the park she realized that this was the first time in two years that she had really felt the change in the weather. It was almost the end of November and the winter chill had just begun to seep into the valley. Adjusting her scarf to cover the random onset of adult acne that occupied most of her chin on one side, she enjoyed the only view of fall you could see in the urban environment.

Although it was only three in the afternoon the sun hung low and dimly in the sky. Burgundy and brown leaves littered the ground in piles on the side of the road, pleading for children to rush through them and scatter them into the sky so they could fly through the air just once more. The trees, unabashedly naked, basked in the frigid light of the afternoon, free of the burden that they had carried throughout the year.

As she shuffled along the sidewalk she dreamt of being a tree. She could stand in a single place for her whole life and have to worry about nothing. No obligations, no responsibilities, and no need to find meaning in her life because she was a tree. Trees do what trees are meant to do; nothing. They do nothing and yet people love them for it, unconditionally and with fervor. They bring oxygen to the air effortlessly and look stunning while doing it.

The thing she envied most about the trees is that they had their meaning already sorted out. Stuck in her second year of college, she hadn’t even begun any classes for her major. She had been stuck in a perpetual hatred of the classes she was taking for the last year and loathed every second of time she had to spend on campus because of it.

“Life isn’t supposed to be like this.” She mused.

“No not even life at the moment, its college. I’m supposed to be having the time of my life right now, but I’m not.” The thought of sitting in the two-bedroom apartment she shared with her father brought back the crushing weight of reality she was trying to escape by walking to the park.

Almost twenty years old, perpetually single, depressed, anxiety ridden, sardonic and acerbic she reminded herself of the trope Woody Allen character that annoyed her. She wallowed in an ever deepening well of self pity that was getting harder and harder to drag herself out of. She thought of her lack of friends on campus and cursed her habit of distancing herself from everyone and everything. Flirting was a task all of its own and making friends was almost just as hard. When she went to her mothers for the holidays it was always the same question.

‘So any boyfriends yet?’

It was easy enough to say,

‘No mom, they’re all fuckboys.’, and continue to blame her misery on her surroundings instead of taking any personal responsibilities, but with all she’d been through maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to seek a bit of solitude. But she was worried that she wouldn’t come out of the nest of isolation she’d built herself. It was comfortable and in near perfect homeostasis and that was the dangerous part. No one could hurt her there but no one could come through to her either.

She dreamt often about having her own place and not needing the support of her over bearing father to make it through her undergraduate studies debt free.

Her trip to the park had ended after two hours due to the stiffening of her fingers and all the calming effects it had on her came crashing down as she entered the apartment complex’s parking lot.

 

My Hands

I live in the Bay Area and I commute to school on the Bart three days a week. It’s my own little personal slice of hour long purgatory, but as of late I’ve noticed something about myself that I’m very fond of.

My hands.

Given the fact that we are now at a technological peak no one is looking up and away from their phones. They don’t talk to each other or even take the hour long ride to sit and to just think. The commute is now a time to sit and to stuff even more fodder into our minds.

Since I started the new school year I have stopped taking my leisurely reading book and laptop with me to campus because it has been giving me back and neck pain. (I’m taking 5 classes and they all require me to take my books to class everyday.) So the only thing I have left to help ease my boredom is my music. I play it off of my phone and by the end of the commute its almost dead, so I try to conserve the battery.

The only thing I have left to look at on Bart, besides an unwanted view of all the standing butts, is my hands.

I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older that my hands are beginning to look more and more like my mothers. Slender wrists with a palm and actual phalanges attached to them. Now, my fingers aren’t long and elegant but they do look like fingers, unlike my fathers side of the family where everyone has paws for hands.

I look at my hands and see my veins beginning to become darker and more visible as time goes on. They look like my mothers and grandmothers more and more every day. They’re becoming thinner, more boney, soft an leathery just as I remember my moms being.

To me it means that I’m doing something right. They’re calloused because I work, they’re strong because I don’t give wimpy handshakes, they’re wrinkled from all the writing I’ve done in my life, and they’re soft because of all the loving I have and have not encountered yet.

These hands have had a life and they continue to live one as I type this food for thought out for you guys right now.

What life have your hands lived, through yours’ or your families?