|Current mood:||just fine|
|Current music:||same as ten minutes ago|
Guess I didn't feel as though I had written enough. *shrugs* I am really in a writing/reading mood today. If someone asked me to write a story for them I would. I'm going to anyway though because I want to write one. I am going to walk to the park in an hour or so and begin to write. I've got to get back for the game though.
I want to write a book about a mixed girl like myself. I want to write my story with a little adding on here and there. I think it could be good and could be a good movie too. Thousands of stories have and will continue to be great material for movies so why not mine? I want to do an overview of my life. Racial stuff will be interlaced everywhere throughout my story because much of my life seems like it's been a big racial jamboree. Living in an all-white town off of the Mississippi river. I dealt with rocks and bike wheels running over my little toes. I was 4 and 5 and 6 and 7 and 8 and I dealt with threats and anger and fear that I was never able to understand until I turned 20. It took me 16 and 15 and 14 and 13 and 12 years to comprehend that those neighborhood white boys had ruled most of my life. ANd in junior high. All those black kids who used to tease me about my hair and give me the hardest, cerrated-knife looks I've ever recieved. I was only 11 and 12 and 13 and 14 then. And it took me 9 and 8 and 7 and 6 years to realize that those black kids, mostly girls, had been ruling my life since junior high. When I was a junior in high school I dropped my everyone-says-I'm-black-so-I-have-to-act-like-it charade and learned to talk again. I stopped talking "black" and reverted back to talking "white". I was happier that way. But for me, happiness came in colorless shades of fragmented realization. Once I could talk again I realized that my happiness had no color so things still weren't right. I didn't know how to fix them. I didn't know how until the middle of my senior year when my lack of knowledge exploded inside my head and charred a large corner of my heart. Another colorless realization took shape and showed me once again, that things were terribly wrong. I still wasn't sure how I might fix them but somehow the explosion forced me to take a guess. I guessed that maybe I needed counseling. I went to the school clinic and starting to turn my guessing into an accurate remedy. My senior year was the year that I let myself pretend that he really wanted to date me for more than looks, the year that I walked numb through the hallways, the year that I sang Summertime at a spring concert while I bawled inside, the year that I barely graduated, and the year that I finally couldn't take it anymore.
That's that kind of stuff I want to write about. Somehow I feel that I have no choice but to set my life free and release it from myself because if I don't I will never be able to really live it. It's as if I've been so afraid for so long. So fearful of letting go of my life because it might never come back to me. But I feel that I have no choice now. And I think that when I do allow myself to set my life free from myself, it will come back to be in a gust of the strongest wind I've ever felt. It won't come limping in, wounded from exposure to the world outside of itself. It will come rushing in, grabbing me by the hand and making me able to live how I've really wanted to live ever since I was a senior in high school.
I came back to write in different colors. That's why I wrote a second entry within an hour or so of the other.