If it was the thing that brought you back to your real self,
helped you escape the talons of “what if”,
If it was your ice pick climbing the threatening wall of life,
your cramp-ons digging into the ice
If it gave you more tangible courage than the book collecting dust,
If it was the thing which helped you adjust
gave you time off from the shifts of tension
If it was your candle through the darks of depression,
Believe me when I tell you,
you would be singing too.
I wrote this because I’ve been really tired of people wondering why I sing habitually. Why do I sing in the hallways? Why do I sing in my room? Why do I sing almost anywhere? I understand this is not the norm. I understand. Please adjust your expectations of me in light of the fact that I have no intentions of fulfilling the norm. Everyone has their way of dealing with the times that their soul gets stepped on. Poetry is mine, not for lack of alternatives. I mean, you can become bitter, get sour, or you can be angry, and swear, or you can use your God-given tallest finger. Poetry is my receptacle for every emotion I don’t want to carry with me. It comes with its ups and downs. I think I’m probably more honest with my Word documents than with the entire world, but blogging has helped me remedy the downsides considerably.
One of the reasons I think blogging is great is because the people who read it want to, and if they don’t want to, they close the tab. Ctrl+W. Simple as that.
And wipe the mark of sadness from my face.
Show me that your love will never change.
Dear Long-Neglected Blog,
Once upon a time, a year ago this time, I learned a word. I was on the football field talking to a teacher. She wasn’t even my teacher, but she taught me a word in German. I didn’t make too much of an effort to remember it, after all, I had no idea how it was spelled or where I might use it. However, today I had a EUREKA moment because I was able to remember it. It was like tying up loose synaptic ends. It was great! Mäuschen!
I taught my laptop to be bïlïngual. Now I have the öf all thé çôôl thîngs.
English class is my comic relief here. When we were asked what the yellow-striped crosswalks are called in English, one student volunteers: “Zebra Crossing!”
No… not zebra crossing. I mean, that doesn’t even exist in French either. Wherever they got that idea, who knows.
But I’m no angel. I say the strangest things. Today when I was loading the dishwasher (parents weren’t home = I could pull that off. Usually only they do the kitchen work.) I was questioning whether or not a specific dish was dishwasher safe. “Does he like to live in the washing machine for dishes?”
My exchange partner has so much patience with me.
The only thing that’s remotely as funny as my French is my family’s English. We were talking about how there is so much more cheese here than in Canada, and, they asked me if it caused me problems with pickles on my forehead. No, it’s not a problem at all. 😛