Kite Runner
Story of redemption. There is always a way to make it good.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Kiss on the collarbone
What's the point of having an iPod, when there's only one song on repeat?
What's the point of having an iPod, when there's only one song on repeat?
3 am. It's dark, but not quite. Light from the neighbour's widow spills carelessly through mine, casting indifferent oblong shapes onto my wall.
Hello.
A trolley bus drags through the night, whistling. I've stopped worrying about the sleep that evades me, secretly enjoying the time to myself: a warm bed, a cozy comforter, and all the time in the world. After all, I can sneak a quick nap during constitutional. A mile a minute - thoughts with neither head nor tail come racing in. Barely looking me in the face, they take up space in my already crowded spirit, occasionally possessing an arm or a leg to direct a toss or deal a turn. I can't tell if my eyes are open or shut, or trapped somewhere in the world between worlds - feels like it. Feels like I've been lying here forever.
I wonder why I try so hard to find meaning, or to keep a hold on myself. I am afraid that all this here will be my undoing. Maybe one day I'll wake up, and see with eyes that are no longer mine and find my mouth filled with strange words. Why do I care so much? I come from a region that has not known substantive freedom for over four centuries.
A prayer rumbles meaninglessly from the hollow in my pillow. And somehow, it's morning. And it's a beautiful day. Glen's right. I heal fast.
Hello.
A trolley bus drags through the night, whistling. I've stopped worrying about the sleep that evades me, secretly enjoying the time to myself: a warm bed, a cozy comforter, and all the time in the world. After all, I can sneak a quick nap during constitutional. A mile a minute - thoughts with neither head nor tail come racing in. Barely looking me in the face, they take up space in my already crowded spirit, occasionally possessing an arm or a leg to direct a toss or deal a turn. I can't tell if my eyes are open or shut, or trapped somewhere in the world between worlds - feels like it. Feels like I've been lying here forever.
I wonder why I try so hard to find meaning, or to keep a hold on myself. I am afraid that all this here will be my undoing. Maybe one day I'll wake up, and see with eyes that are no longer mine and find my mouth filled with strange words. Why do I care so much? I come from a region that has not known substantive freedom for over four centuries.
A prayer rumbles meaninglessly from the hollow in my pillow. And somehow, it's morning. And it's a beautiful day. Glen's right. I heal fast.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Soulmate
—People need to understand that the Lauryn Hill they were exposed to in the beginning was all that was allowed in that arena at that time. There was much more strength, spirit and passion, desire, curiosity, ambition and opinion that was not allowed in a small space designed for consumer mass appeal and dictated by very limited standards. I had to step away when I realized that for the sake of the machine, I was being way too compromised. I felt uncomfortable about having to smile in someone’s face when I really didn’t like them or even know them well enough to like them.
—I had to fight for an identity that doesn’t fit in one of their boxes. I’m a whole woman. And when I can’t be whole, I have a problem. By the end I was like, I’ve got to get out of here.
~ LH
—I had to fight for an identity that doesn’t fit in one of their boxes. I’m a whole woman. And when I can’t be whole, I have a problem. By the end I was like, I’ve got to get out of here.
~ LH
