As I’ve been reading through my journal from my senior year of high school, the BIGGEST thing I’ve realized is that I was not a very good writer back then. I tried too hard. I’m pretty sure that I’ve improved since then and let’s chalk it up to my sa-weet blogging skills. Or let’s not. We could chalk it up to all the money I’ve spent on higher education. I would hope an English BA and a nearly-attained Technical Writing MS would amount to SOMETHING.*
The following rambling entry was written in class my senior year:
Her seat holds her body in class.
Each hand grips the edges of her desk.
Her crossed legs keep her from running.
Her assignment fills space on her desk top.
She is trapped within her unanswered problems.
However, nothing can jail her thoughts.
They run free
Chasing her raingutter sailboat,
Skipping across rocks that hold the stream bed.
She picks her pen off her desk,
Pictures splash from the ink.
*However, if the only thing that it amounts to is the one-act play I wrote where Antigone, Ismene, Puck and Linda Loman attended an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting together, then I can die happy. Big grin.