For a moment, I start to doubt myself again. I try to picture myself in a classroom, in charge, and I tremble. Why? Why did I choose to do this? I remember the reasons but I’m tired of this. Of being on this side of the desk. Maybe that’s a reason. For 15 years I’ve been a student. Finally my time has come to move to the other side.
Originally written in class October 17th, 2012
I look back on the last entry, the one I just finished and the frustration only grows. It feels awkward to bear my soul in such a way, especially through my writing. My secrets are exposed and through them I want you to see that I am only human.
Originally written in class October 10th, 2012
A man walks by, powerful smell of cologne and aftershave riding the wind, and I am reduced to a quivering mess of desire. The scent is inviting, intoxicating. Inhale deeply, release the breath that carries his nameless essence. For a moment the animalistic side takes over, the desire to pounce, attack, claim, have. 20 years of waiting, watching, wanting. I stare at the muscles in his arms, unspeakable strength rippling beneath the skin. For a moment, I want to know. Can your strength hold me down as I rock into you and sate the need that’s been aching between the two structures that hold me up with difficulty? The two legs that carry me away from the succulent smell of your cologne.
Originally written before class October 10, 2012
Hot. Bothered. The ache starts low, builds up in a wave I want to lose myself in but I’m afraid of the consequence that could come of it. The spasm begins when I decide to indulge on the release, teeth biting lips to seal in the silence of pleasure.
Originally written in class October 8th, 2012
don’t know how to start today. too many things clouding my mind and demanding my attention if I stop to listen, my thoughts will drive me insane. So what can I say that you don’t already know? My words are limited by the period her voice asks me to find but I don’t think I can.
Originally written in class Oct. 3, 2012. Copied exactly as is on notebook.
The silence was interrupted by the sudden whisper of wings. The familiar sound, however, went by unnoticed by the figure laying broken and bloody on the bed. The ragged breathing came from between bruised ribs and the pain of a broken nose. Even so, Dean was a captivating sight.
Originally written in class Oct. 1, 2012. Inspired by SPN 4x16 On The Head of a Pin.
Blue. That’s a nice blue. Very different when compared to the turquoise atrocity that insists on making a weekly appearance. I guess that’s okay. Now, let me focus on the stain I mentioned last time. I wonder what it is… melted gum? A soda meant to quench someone’s thirst? Or perhaps blood from a murder nobody ever found out about? It’s interesting to think about.
Originally written in class Sep. 26, 2012.
What could I possibly write about that would interest anybody? Sometimes all I do is complain, pause when I’m not supposed to, change my words, doubt myself and do it all over again. I worry to much about detail. Add a few words here, make it pretty, do it redundant. What? All over again, that’s what this is about. I can hear myself thinking and it’s distracting, the way words come to me before I can write them down. Is it really free when my head already knows what it wants to say? Or does it know what it wants to say? Then doesn’t that mean I’m writing about thinking about writing about… what? My head hurts. I just lost myself and all I want to do is buy myself a cup of the coffee I can smell, sing along to the music in my ears and go home so I can post this and worry about the homework I keep putting off. I mean, what does it mean to be responsible? Why do I have to be responsible anyway? I’m to die one day and none of this at all will matter then.
Originally written Sept. 26, 2012.
One minute. What do you expect me to talk about? The snot clogging up my throat and nose? The disgusting stain on the carpet by the door? Or the horridly patterned turquoise dress you’ve worn these last three weeks?
Originally written in class Sep. 24, 2012.
Trembling uncontrollably, I stand there, dozens of eyes trained on me as I quiver with fear. It feels strange, laying my past in front of people I don’t know. The vulnerability grips me and my soul falls under the scrutinizing eyes of people not brave enough to stand up. This is who I am, the coward gripped by a sudden moment of courage that abandoned me at the last minute. It slipped away, drained out of my fingertips and dried out my tongue. My words hurt on their way out, cutting and bleeding my emotions until all I am is a quivering shape with a blank memory, a net unable to catch the butterflies of my mind. You judge me for standing up here but are unaware of the war I wage against myself for doing this in the first place.
Written after giving my presentation on my Personal Literacy History, September 18th, 2012.