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29 January 2010 @ 07:43 pm
written -- remember me as a time of day  
Title: Remember Me as a Time of Day
Series: --
Pairing: --
Posted: January 29 2010
Rating: PG-13
Length: Drabbles?
Genre: General, Drama?, Romance?
Warnings: The word "fuck"?
Summary: Uhh, it's a collection of "drabbles" you can say, each titled with a quote or lyric and given a time of the day. It's just basically some short ideas about life and experiences.
Why: For my creative writing course, we have to do three major writing assignments for the semester: non-fiction, fiction, and poetry. First up was non-fiction. So I put together this little piece here after being inspired by some lyrical essays that we had to read. This essay was copied and given to each of my classmates so on Monday, I get to listen to them discuss it during class while I sit to the side and stay quiet. :D

12AM: this wall has been intentionally left blank

Not every moment is significant. Not every minute will strike an inspiration. Not every day will be the best one you experience.

And most likely, you’ll miss some hours in your life. You’ll forget what you did last night or even this morning. Sometimes it doesn’t matter.

But we have twenty-four hours in our day every day, day light savings aside. Just one hour is needed for a transformation. So much can be discovered and achieved and inspired. It doesn’t take long to suddenly feel human. Just an hour. Maybe a little more. Maybe a little less.

This is your day. You’re the painter holding the colors.

Flick your brush at the wall of your hours and paint your masterpiece.

1AM: put down that map and get wonderfully lost

The best sort of people to be friends with are the ones that don’t make plans. They don’t look into next week. They don’t look into tomorrow. They don’t even look into tonight. It doesn’t matter. We’ll wander and we’ll find ourselves together somewhere.

We’ll go ice skating on the coldest day of the year. We’ll park in the back so we’ll have to go the long way around to the entrance. We’ll find giant pieces of melting ice on the side of the road left over from the rink and throw it at one another. We’ll have snow fights in Florida.

We’ll go bowling without ever having done it before. We’ll form teams of two and give them nonsensical names like “Fearsome Threesome”. We’ll gutter the ball every time but we’ll high five one another and exchange hats for luck.

We’ll just stay home even though we do it too often. We’ll play the same old games that we did when we were kids. We’ll take terrible pictures when we try holding the camera ourselves. We’ll later jump the fence to look for fast food restaurants and eat the same tacos we ate the week before.

We’ll be lost every time. No plans in the making. But we’ll laugh even when I slip on the ice. We’ll cheer even when you don’t get a single pin down. We’ll drive for hours together even when there’s no money for gas.

We’ll be lost but we’ll be having the most wonderful of days.

2AM: as if we'd never meet again

I have to get up early to catch the plane. And I’m scared because it’s far. We’ve been so close and we didn’t know. Not until now. But I’m getting up early to catch the plane.

I used to be scared. I still am, but I don’t cry anymore. You never did cry, did you? You’d grin and act like I was always around. Like our time together was natural. And it always is, isn’t it? Because when I leave, there’s always a plane that’ll go the opposite way again.

I come back and you’re still grinning. I’ve never really left, have I? You don’t hug me even though it’s been months. Because to you, I haven’t left. It’s still so natural.

I don’t cry anymore. I laugh as I get out of the car and you drive away without a real goodbye as if we’d see each other again real soon anyway.

And we will, won’t we? Days later. Weeks later. Months later. We’ll still meet. Years later, we’ll meet again. And again and again and again.

And I won’t be crying anymore.

3AM: if it disturbs you, it's art

I can’t be a lawyer or a doctor or a scientist. I can’t do any of that. I don’t have anything against those careers. But I can’t do it. Not now. Not tomorrow.

Because I’m an artist.

I paint terribly. I make multiple grammar errors. I can’t act without bursting into laughter. When I pick up a pencil, the best I can do are stick figures.

But I’m an artist.

I will be the painter. I will be the writer. I will be the actor. I will be the drawer. Because it’s the light that flows inside me. My inspiration and what moves me forward.

Because I’m an artist.

I’m ignorant to money and economy and business. I don’t need it. I just need pencils and paints and a stage. That’s all I need.

Because I’m an artist.

4AM: these are hard times for dreamers

I’m a bit of a liar when it comes to dreams. When I tell people about the so-called strange dream I had the night before, I don’t really describe it as it really was and mold the details a bit. It was my dream. Undocumented and without witness. No one can really prove me wrong.

But am I lying? We wake up with only a vague memory of the pictures that were just in our minds. So I don’t lie. I take the images and piece them together and make a story. I tell them what I remember of the dream and I use my conscious mind to create a connected piece. To tie it together. To make my dreams describable and whole.

Because we don’t get lunch breaks from dreaming.

We’re awake, but our ideas and wishes are still dreams. We’re still creating images in our mind that sometimes have sense and sometimes don’t. They don’t need to. They’re dreams—the sketches of our minds. You haven’t stopped dreaming. Whether asleep or awake or young or old—you’re still dreaming.
There’s no retirement plan, kid.

5AM: don't tell the world what we know

After eighteen years, it was the first time and it only lasted two seconds at most. Eighteen years waiting for something like that and I don’t even fully remember it. It wasn’t planned. The result of silliness and the spin of a bottle.

I don’t know. Fairytale scenarios were given up ten years ago. But I don’t know. I had still been waiting eighteen years.

But then we sing karaoke afterwards and it doesn’t matter anymore. We don’t need to know. The world doesn’t stop turning and sparks don’t fly.

So let’s keep moving.

6AM: life is nothing like a movie; there is no music in the background

I used to drive anywhere I wanted to go. No matter how far or close it was, I would have to use a car to somehow get there. Nowadays, I walk everywhere. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. However long it takes, my feet will transport me.

The silence is beautiful. Even when surrounded by swarms of students rushing to their classes, they do it quietly. It’s still beautiful. If it’s windy, the trees sing. And you can hear the crunching as the squirrels rush over dry leaves.

But put some headphones in your ears. The sound. The music. Like a set on a stage which gains actors, the visual scene becomes complete and you’re astonished.

You’ve just painted with music and nature. That peaceful feeling. That sudden masterpiece.
I may never drive again.

7AM: age is of no importance unless you are a cheese

It’s a funny name. It’s not a shortened version of your actual first name or even you’re middle or last name. It’s probably nothing at all related to your official identification. But they call you it anyway. Because it’s funny. Because it’s short. Because it’s catchy.

Some people might not even be sure what it means (for me, one girl was completely convinced it meant “cheese” when it was actually the Spanish word for “cat”) and others may not even know what your real name is. But I don’t mind.

That’s the thing about names. They don’t age. They don’t outgrow you and you don’t outgrow them. Long after people stop using your nicknames, you still remember it as a floating puzzle piece from your life.

It’s a funny name. It usually is. Maybe it really is just a shortened version of your first name. Maybe it’s something completely random. No matter what is—it’s still you.

8AM: when i lie here with you, i'm sure that i'm real--like that firework over the freeway

It’s raining. Pretty roughly, too. But he’s laying down on the ground under no shade. His eyes are closed. I speak, but when there’s no reply, I’m certain he’s fallen asleep.

And I’m fascinated.

I always wanted to live without a care in the world, but then it’s pouring rain and he’s laying there on dirty ground just taking a nap.

And I’m speechless.

There’s not much else for me to do. I don’t want to wake him up. There’s a good chance he’ll be sneezing into tissues tomorrow, but for this moment, he looks so peaceful. So I lay down too, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. But then I’m in that same moment he is, laying down on the floor in cold rain.

And I’m at peace.

9AM: if the music’s too loud, you’re too old

I hate to sound cliché when I say how much music plays a big part in my life. I’ve even been told that I don’t live up to being able to say that because I don’t know how to play an instrument.
I’ve never heard something so ridiculous.

Put on a set of headphones. Raise the volume up high enough to block out external sounds. Close your eyes. Now listen.

If when listening to the sounds as they flow through your ear drums, you’ve become absorbed and have fallen in love with that simple moment—

That’s all you need.

10AM: aquí se habla español

There’s a reason for stereotypes and there’s a reason why they say all Cubans are loud. Whether it’s the folks that live downstairs always shouting swear words at one another or the man in the truck that drives by every afternoon selling oranges and mangoes or the family in the kitchen simply discussing the food network channel. There’s always noise and you can barely concentrate on anything you’re doing. It’s enough to make you want to scream. But that’ll just once again prove the stereotype.

It’s a lot quieter in Virginia and no one shouts over every little thing whether it’s a disagreement or just a casual conversation about the shortage of cream cheese in the fridge. There’s no noisy couple downstairs or a man selling fruits on the street or a family in the kitchen. It’s almost completely silent.

And it’s enough to make you want to scream.

11AM: cool kids can't die

They’re called theater kids, but you soon realize that they’re all still human. They’re not always full of energy or making silly jokes or simply loving everyone.

I was stupid enough to get that impression the first time. I should’ve known better. It was obvious. But I was so amazed by their spirits, I forgot they were human too.

They can be tired too. They can be relaxed too. They can fight with each other too. But it has nothing to do with why they’re theater kids.

They live in inspiration and creativity. They embrace every passing moment and believe in the impossible. They speak loudly and let the world see who they are. They stand as individuals but are bonded together as family.

But the most beautiful thing is when you stop calling them “theater kids”. Because that’s when you know you’ve become one too.

12PM: today i will be happier than a bird with a french fry

It’s going to be a good day.

The first time I say that, the wind gust grows strong and blows a big pile of leaves into my face as I’m walking to work.

I reach the theater and say it again. There’s a flood going into the shop from the back garage door and the steel we spent hours cleaning the week before has become wet and rusty.

Later, I say it again and as I’m at the counter paying for my lunch, I realize I’ve left my wallet back in my room and must have my food held there for me as I rush across campus to my dorm.

That night, I say it again as I’m walking up the steps with a bag of soda bottles I had just bought when suddenly the bottom of the bag breaks and the bottles go tumbling down the steps.

The day is coming to an end and I still say it once more just before he goes on to tell me that he’s seeing someone else.

They ask why I keep saying it if every time I do, something bad ends up happening. But I believe in optimism. I believe in the beauty of things. I believe in believing. I believe that despite it all--
It’s going to be a good day.

1PM: these things take time

When I reread the stuff I write, I lose interest in it. It has become terrible and boring. Not specifically because it’s bad or anything, but I never find that it’s enough. And then I wonder if I’ll ever be capable or writing something that’ll connect to the readers.

But then I also wonder how many people actually read through everything I write.

When I write too little, I haven’t said what’s needed to be said. And when I write too much, I’ve put too much down that it becomes overwhelming and unneeded.

I’ve been writing for at least ten years. I still have a ways to go.

2PM: you give me the kind of feeling people write novels about

Whenever I’m asked to write about something important, I always write about the same thing: rubber bands. Some people have an old bracelet that belonged to their grandmother. Or a baseball they caught during a game won by their favorite team. Or a plush doll caught in a crane game by someone they love.

All irreplaceable.

Rubber bands are not. You can get a packet with hundreds. All looking exactly the same, you wouldn’t be able to tell one from the other. When one snaps, you can just snag yourself a new one.

When that bracelet gets rusty or that baseball gets stolen or that plush doll gets lost, he’s slipping another rubber band around my wrist.

So while all of those other things come to an end, the rubber bands live on.

3PM: follow the white rabbit

I complained that I had never seen snow. I moved up north and I expected to see it. I’ve lived for eighteen years and I never had the opportunity to build a snowman and I refused to graduate from college without being able to do so. They replied saying that there was a chance it wouldn’t come and if it did, it’d only be light flurries.

I kept complaining and soon enough, we got a blizzard.

My snowman was one giant lump in the ground. Mission complete.

4PM: you and me won't be unhappy

Three years and I’m still waiting. Waiting for the front door to open as I’m still throwing rocks at your window.

I’m not beautiful or funny or talented. But you’ve stuck by me. You, who have inspired me in every significant way, still keep me around. But I’m still waiting and you’re knocking on someone else’s door.

I’m imperfect but I know love. I just don’t know what’s on the other side.

I’m still throwing rocks. Come on down and I’ll sing you a song. One of those you send my way every other day to get me smiling. It’ll be a happy tune, something no one’s ever heard. And you’ll hear it and smile.

And you won’t be unhappy.

5PM: so where are the hover boards

They said we’d be living in space by the millennium, but we’re still here. We haven’t learned to read minds or had alien contact. We’re the same as we were when we landed on the moon fifty years ago. Technology’s improved but we’ve remained human.

We’re still laughing and crying and screaming and smiling and working and playing and living.
But when we do these things, we’re still progressing. We’re unchanging, but we’re progressing.
In another fifty years, we’ll still be doing the same old things we did a hundred years before. We may be seeing skyscrapers actually floating in the sky, but we’ll be unchanging.

Unchanging, progressing humans.

6PM: it's okay to say fuck

I didn’t swear out loud until I was eighteen.

I had felt I was too young to swear. Even though everyone was swearing through middle school, I was still uncomfortable. By the end of high school, I didn’t mind anymore, but because people identified me as someone who didn’t ever swear, I couldn’t just say it without it being made into some sort of big deal.

The word looked ugly. I hated it when people said it. It made them seem angry even when they said it as a joke. It sounded wrong and hateful. And I didn’t want to look like that. I didn’t want to be a bad kid.

But we’re all ugly. All of our lives have the word “fuck” somewhere in its vague definition. We’re imperfect and dirty and stupid and capable of mistakes. “We are all prostitutes and junkies,” I once read. We’re all screw ups in some sort of way.

And that’s okay.

None of us are truly the “good kids”. We’re all capable of being hateful and angry and prejudice and ugly and imperfect. We’re human.

It’s okay to say “fuck”.

7PM: bisexuality immediately doubles your chances for a date on saturday night

Lately, I’ve noticed that no one really labels themselves with a specific sexual orientation anymore. While there’s controversy over gay marriage across the nation, here, in this small town, they seems to be doing pretty well. Whether they’re straight or gay or bi, no one really cares. No one becomes judgmental. And it doesn’t matter.

Male. Female. Whatnot. We’re all individuals who search for love and find love and live up to fully experiencing that love. And no one really cares.

They’re smiling. The boys. The girls. They’re smiling. I see their happiness and I embrace it and love them all the more for it.

It makes you a little more hopeful for the future.

8PM: it’s like a cigarette in the mouth or a handshake in the doorway

It’s disgusting. My sense of smell has always been pretty terrible, but my nose still catches it and it’s disgusting. But I’m used to it. The smell. Even though it brings a sense in my head that everyone’s just burning. I smell it and I deal because if I don’t accept the smell, then I’m just alone.

I don’t do it though. I easily give in to pressure when it’s thrown on me, but I don’t even have the slightest urge. He knows that too. He knows I hate the smell. He puts the stick in his mouth and lights up. He’s addicted.

He notices me and tells me I’ve picked the worst place to stand. I’m right beside him as he stands with the stick and the smoke. The smell bothers me. But I’m still there.

He’s addicted. So am I. He can’t stop buying new packets. I can’t stop standing beside him. Even if it kills him. Even if it kills me.

9PM: you're just asleep in the waiting room

There’s a quote I read recently that depresses me every time I do: “this day will never happen again”. I’ve come across it a lot lately and it always gets me thinking. But when I think about it, it gets me down to the point where I just kind of want to sit down for a while and not do anything at all. Which, of course, defeats the entire purpose of the quote.

So while it may be depressing and sad to think about, despite its actual words, it’s never too late to start living.

10PM: the art of conversation is, like, kinda dead and stuff

Fact: within every group of friends you have throughout most of your adolescence, there will have been at least one conversation that focuses on the topic of boobs.

I have no statistics to prove this. But I don’t think I need to.

It’s a strange topic—strange enough to make you feel awkward as you read the word—but you can’t really deny that it’s come up at least once or twice. And when it’s not boobs, it’s weird smells or awkward moments or bad video games or something among the lines of bizarre. It makes you wonder how we, the people of today, submerged from the days of the Renaissance when most talks were quite sophisticated.

It’s late at night and I’m trying to think of important things in life that most people can relate to in order to write my essay. Asking my roommate about this, we begin a conversation about the human mind which eventually drifts to literature and then to men’s taste in terrible women and finally to … well, I’m sure you can take a guess.

It makes you wonder if Shakespeare or Da Vinci had occasional conversations about boobs.

11PM: we are all part stardust

Whenever I meet someone, I always find that there’s several qualities I share in common with each other individual. It’s the same with everyone. No two people are alike, but no two people are absolutely and completely different from each other. It’s fascinating and also comforting to realize because it shows that no single person is ever alone. Whatever aspect of their life it may be, there will always be someone else whom they can share their sadness or joy. We will never ever be truly alone.

12AM: so far, this is the oldest I’ve been

I’m not the most interesting person in the universe. I don’t think I’ll ever be famous and I don’t think I’ll ever do something that can change the entire world.

But I’m as alive as everyone else is.

I don’t want to be famous. I want to live alongside everyone else. I don’t want to change the world. I want to be a part of the freedom within it.

We are all connecting, all growing, all aging, all living, as humans, alongside humans, experiencing the simple things in life that truly matter most.

Each day ends and another one starts all over. The painting we made today, we set it aside, and we grab a new canvas. It’s freshly new and white all over.

Brush in hand, find your colors and continue to paint.