On Sketches

What I do in class instead of taking notes.

You sat by yourself after the worship service had ended, while the buzz of voices drowned Iron & Wine. All of us in our own little personalized, individual bubbles, you were left alone, head bowed, praying hard. The emotions of others helped little. Everyone jumping off their stage to go and greet their friends, leaving you abandoned, without pastoring. You needed more than they could offer. We all did.

These are all about different people.  Except one.

This is not a safe place for you, and I’m sorry about that. It should be. You can’t eve hold hands with your boyfriend while strolling along the canal. You should be able to. What right do we have to suppress any type of love? I’m sorry that you have to live fearfully. I’m sorry that you have been silenced. It isn’t right.

Today was a long day.

You need sleep, love. You need someone to hold you and say, “Everything will be alright.” But instead, everyone is taking from you, being so loud, always speaking and squeaking and drawing every ounce of attention possible. You don’t want attention. Just stillness. Just an acknowledgement of your presence would be nice. But even God knows you’re not going to ask for it. I’m proud of you for that, for not giving in to be like those all around. For not being fake. For having honest and intentional friendships.

I am drained.

Lean against the glassed wall, sealed pint of soup held carefully in thin fingers, along with a solid black plastic spoon. Orange shirt matching ginger hair, listening to speeches, bored out of his mind. She loves watching him. Watching how small he looks compared with those around him. Wanting to hear his thoughts. Wanting to be in close confidence, to have a warm whisper in her ear. Watching him watch the threat warily. Watching him watch the pea-coated blonde subtly. Superimposing meaning on others’ lives for her own sick entertainment.

Negativity kills me.

Today, I fully intended to skip this class. But I got distracted by my blue eyed hipster and followed him all the way from Moyer to Demaray. His classroom is conveniently right next to mine and on the third floor. Rats. Now I’m in class, instead of spending time with God, with Oedipus, with sleep. You are to blame for this.

I'll run away soon.

I wish I had seen you fall on the stairs.  I'm sure it wasn't as graceless as you described.  I would have offered a hand, offered an  'are you ok?', offered my sympathies for a muffin down.  Biffing it doesn't make you any less beautiful.  Just human.  And in some ways, that is even more beautiful.  Don't worry.  I'll still love you no matter how many times you fall down the stairs.  Or up them.  Ok, sunshine?

Any takers?

[I image searched 'dropped muffin' and this came up.  I'm really happy with these results.]