SADIE
After four years of high school where I wrote 24/7, I now seem to have a lack of motivation. Right now my life seems more of a mess of cosplay and school, when I need my life to be more of a mess that's going somewhere. Having somewhere to post my work and occasional political rant seems to be a solution to get me back to that place of a not-all-the-way-there aspiring author.
Why I Choose to be Lonely
To someone looking into my life, the way I walk down the hallway of my dorm building with my head down, trying to avoid open doors, might be due to the choice of others not to approach me. That is almost true.
The choice of others to not talk to me only follows my choice to be unapproachable. That's at least what I try and convince myself. It's certainly not the way my shoulders only make my profile wider once I subconsciously slouch. And definitely not how weird my voice sounds, or my interests that are too genuine to actually share with other people. Â I don't take risks at all.
I judge other people by their looks. Not whether or not they're ugly, but whether or not I can be open to them. I've never been one to say that I build walls up, but I notice, even now, that no matter how much I feel comfortable with a person, they end up digging at my soul with a pickaxe. My list of people I trust now are down significantly. Either my expectations are too high, or people feel like they can take advantage of how nice I try to be. Other than treating others the way I want to be treated, I think it works the other way around. To be liked, I think I need to change.
EYE CONTACT
The first thing I noticed were the pupils,
round, dark, like a period at the end of a sentence,
a black hole so powerful that everything gets sucked in, a crater on the moon from far away. My eyes trailed to the iris,
a deep blue like when the sky is going to sleep,
when the ocean becomes heavy enough to crush a soda can, a blue crayon rubbed on paper until it breaks.
The veins branched out from the iris,
like sticks lying on a dirt path ran over by a bike, paint splatters on a clean white canvas, flecks of red scattered across a sea of white.
Before it broke, eyelashes blinked up and down, as gentle as a butterfly, they fluttered, breaking the trance of an eye to eye connection, hoping the image of my eyes were the same.
