February 25, 2004
The Most Charming of Dolls
I saw my reflection in the rec center mirror, one of many, my hair was flushed and so was I. I was radiant with life, my skin pulsing and breathing as though the organs for those activities were no longer enough.
I didn't like the mirrors on the walls. Sure, athletic people like to look at themselves. Nervous non-athletes desirous of better bodies, however, do not.
25 minutes on the psuedo-bike left my thighs throbbing, foreshadowing of tomorrow's complaint. I can't be shattered, though. The girl who read my aura said it was orange: confident.
Sparkly orange.
I have a meeting with Greg, the Citybeat news editor, tomorrow afternoon about my internship. Dad's giving me a ride downtown, as I've never driven downtown and would like a passenger side tour before I attempt it on my own. Especially at 4:30 in the afternoon.
I'm anxious. I feel like things are heading in a direction, for once, instead of meandering about, clattering into eachother as the only sounds of hope in this sphere of my consciousness. A voice.
Mine? Buried? Emerging?
astera at 11:24 p.m.