February 22, 2001
Seperate and Equal
Sometimes I look down at myself and wonder what everyone else sees. Here, in the painful quiet of fourth bell government, surrounded by loud-mouthed conservatives and mute liberals; with my only thoughts centered around next period lunch and trying to be inconspicuous as I write complicated stream of conciousness as opposed to the riveting notage sprawled in multicolored erasable markers on the dry erase board (this room used to be the wrestling room...alas, no chalkboard...sweet memories of boys in spandex, rolling around on sweaty mats in sickening fits of testosterone influenced agression), my vulnerable mind pained by both the eratic February weather and impending graduation and all the horrors/joys that it entails.
What does everyone see? My favorite jeans, faded; my every-girl-owns-them gym shoes rather dirty (easily fixable if I could only throw them in the washer but I think the little straps are leather); my red jacket a little tight and obscuring the words 'Rock Star' on my t-shirt. My hair is probably a mess: muddy brown curls escaping the loose twists, flaring around my neck and shoulders.
How about my eyes? I haven't cried lately. I'm sure the sadness is storing up. I don't know but I wonder if they study me like I study them. Does my face reveal as much apathy? What do they go home to? What do they come from? Who do they love and when do they loathe and will they ever find themselves in this tangled, intricate web of anonymity we call life, being human, the experience between birth and death?
I guess this is why I decided to become a journalist. In that field, somehow, I may be able to capture these inexplicable moments, these shy faces; perhaps I can sift through the sand of everyday and pluck from it that one shining grain of beauty, that lump of cosmic relevance. Be it through pen or lens, I want to bring the people to the people. I want to show them themsleves.
astera at not that it matters