Rachel (eurocricket) wrote in artconnection,
Rachel
eurocricket
artconnection

i'd give you more, but i've got a huge *crosses fingers* protest to plan.

oh yeah, introduction. Rachel, 22, baton rouge, LA. student. activist. butcher of words. writer of small sentences.



The sky that day reflected her soul... the soul she hid from anyone else. The rumbling of thunder matched her fears, the flashes of lightning her most inner secrets that she had forgotten years ago... She began to wonder if anyone would ever get to know her the way she didn't know herself, if it were possible that anyone would be able to see beyond the layers of rain and storm clouds and find the glimmer of blindingly bright blue. Just as she began to wonder, she stopped herself, because she knew the answer... and dwelling on it would only bring her further down. She let out a sigh, grabbed her umbrella and favorite coffee cup, and headed to the local cafe. It would do her well to get out of the house... if only to sit under the awning with a warm cup of coffee and watch the sky release pain in a way she always envied. She never had understood people that could show emotions so openly around other people. Once, she had witnessed a friend's breakdown and felt a sense of jealousy that made her cry alone under the cover of her shower for hours afterwards. She often thought back to that moment and pondered the nature of differences in people.

After settling into her favorite table outside, she briefly contemplated pulling out her portable CD player but quickly nixed that idea knowing that no better soundtrack to life existed than the pouring rain. Instead, she brought out her current reading material, She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not, a collection of short stories about lesbian love that all at once made her proud to be a lesbian but bitter to be out of practice. She tried to settle into a story, but the rain kept calling her attention elsewhere. She watched puddles form and followed the small rivers that made their way to the drain in the middle of the parking lot. Her eyes caught the people rushing for cover from the pouring rain. She found amusement in the slight panic that set across people’s faces once they got wet by southern Louisiana rain. There’s nothing more soothing for the soul than people watching—realizing the proverbial mountain that most people make out of a molehill. What’s a bit of wetness in the long run? She always did like a bit of wetness. Speaking of such, her eyes wandered to a young woman walking hurriedly through the rain with only the protection of a smile. Her eyes followed the woman as she went inside for a latte and headed back outside to join her as the only two daring enough to brave the storm anywhere not behind a window. Possibly her glimmer of blue? She had learned not to expect much from life. Perhaps not, but a nice fantasy nonetheless. She’d only known two people thus far who were ever able to see the sadness behind her smile. And while she would always be grateful to have these people as friends, it only made the loneliness of romantic relationships painfully apparent. She’d been cynical since the age of eight, and her mood had only gotten worse each addition year tacked onto her life. Oddly enough, she learned to mask this pessimism with dry humour and a smile. Most people never delved much further than that smile, and she had grown comfortable with the distance between her and those close to her. The distance was all she had ever known. It was all that kept her sane during her tumultuous childhood. Thinking back to such circumstances even now made her shudder and brought her back to the reality of the rain, the café, and the woman sitting a few feet away from her. She began watching the woman as intently as possible without calling attention to herself. As much as she liked watching others, the thought of being watched completely creeped her out—yeah, hypocrisy at its finest. She audibly chuckled once she noticed that the young woman was reading Truman Capote. Talk about irony. A couple of days ago, she had wept while watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the thousandth time in the darkness and solitude of her room. If there was a kink in her soul, that was it. No matter how she tried to talk herself into not caring about the walls she built between herself and the world, she yearned for someone to be her Paul Varjak and scale them in a moment of frustration. She could never breathe as Paul tells Holly her own truth. Those words speak to her soul and soothe it for a while. They make the clouds shift a bit out of the way. For those few moments, every time, her soul is bared. Capote sure had a way with words. She always imagined she’d be the Holly Golightly Truman intended when he wrote the play. She’d ride away after her masks are cast off and continue to run from the world. Yet, a part of her, the small spark of hope that she continued to let survive, yearns to be Audrey’s Holly who runs into the rain to stake her claim on happiness… happiness that is always elusive.

...




Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

  • 4 comments