It’s hot and very humid. I’m drenched in sweat and have only been sitting at the train station for ten minutes. All the busyness of the world stopped the moment I sat down. I used to take public transportation everywhere when I didn’t have a car. First, there would be the rush of not knowing whether I was going to make it: hurrying to the ticket counter, digging through my purse for a dollar or bus pass or a few extra quarters to pay the fare. Then, I had to wait, in the heat, where I am now, savoring slight and few breezes that brushed my cheeks. I never cherished the moments in which I waited for the bus to get to work.
Now, I feel relief and yearning as I sit on the hard-metal, pale-teal bench. Owls’ hoots and motorists’ engines, in the distance, fill the hum of the silence. Everything I could possibly need in the next four hours is crammed in my purple, grey and white backpack. Sometimes I forget to enjoy these moments.
I used to write during these moments. I could organize the thoughts that I’ve been fumbling around with. Life made more sense when I set my thoughts on paper. I’ve lost those moments, so I stopped writing; writing for me, anyway.
School has started again. And of course, the only writing I’ve been doing is for my grammar history class. And any writing where I don’t thoroughly enjoy the subject is not really writing. Now, I’ve begun a fiction workshop class. I have to write more frequently, and I’m quite out of practice.
I feel that my strength is in the manipulation of language. Writing pretty sentences comes easily enough to me. Thank you many dark, emotional years of poetry writing. However, my weakness is in the nature of what I write. Really, how does one write a story? How does one mold characters? How do I make a complete person out words?
When I figure it out, I’ll let you know (soon, I promise). I’m signing off for now. Good day!
