I’m losing a sense of who I am. I need to take a break from here to remember, to grow. I’ll be back soon.
What inspires you?
I’m a forgetful person. I forget my way around places I’ve been to a million times. I forget details of things really easily. What inspires me to write is this need to take moments and emotions and thoughts I’ve had and time capsule them onto paper. I’m scared of losing them.
In terms of fiction, I guess I’m inspired by this need to understand other people. This need to put myself in situations I will never be in and explore other ways of feeling, of thinking, of living.
My second grade teacher liked to ask us,
“How do you feel today, on a scale of one to ten?”
Ten always meant I’m super, thank you
and one was always not today, Mrs. MacAuley, not today.
But I never liked numbers, they would always
twist and rebel against my mind so I chose
to speak in colors instead.
January third - I am the color
of mint chocolate chip ice cream
but I’ve eaten all the chocolate chips.
I am calm.
February seventh - I am a bruise of
blues and violets today. I think it would
be best if I sat by the window.
These are unhappy colors.
April eleventh - I am turquoise, I am magenta,
I am every color in the rainbow.
April thirtieth - I am gray, I am silent.
May first - I am orange, the color of melting
creamsicles on a beach in July.
June twelfth - I am as yellow as the school bus
that will bring me home to summer. I am free.
Twelve years later, I still use colors.
The winter makes me feel cobalt blue, the ocean
turns me a seafoam green. Violets and purples
leave me uneasy and scarlet is a fever of fury.
Some nights I drown in shades of navy, denim,
and cornflower but other nights I meditate in forests of
harlequin and shamrock.
you leave me a blinding white followed by a soft yellow:
the color of sunlight after a period of darkness.
HELP ME GET MY BOOK PUBLISHED!
My submission for the Write Bloody Publishing Contest. Please like, share, reblog, comment, pirate, and exploit. I need as much help as I can get!
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I think in some way, (spoken word) poetry has saved my life.
Sure! You can reach me at email@example.com (:
I’ve been reading Anne Michaels’ The Winter Vault and at one point Avery notices the quietness in Jean and he reflects on it saying that her heart is thinking. I read that line in the early morning when the entire world seemed quiet and it did something funny to my heart. I sat there while my parents and my brother were fast asleep, while every light in the house was turned off except the glow of my bedside lamp and I cried. There’s something about silence that I like to wear around my shoulders like a blanket and I’ve spent my entire life fighting everyone who wanted to take the blanket off, to get me speak more. But it’s not that simple for me. My heart is still trying to make sense of all its gears and rhythms and sometimes at night, I think the world is trying to do the same thing.
Gabriel Orozco, My Hands Are My Heart