In my case, boredom results from immobilization.
On the celebration of my 21st birthday, I took a bit of a spill. Whether this was the fault of the six-inch heels, the icy crosswalk, or the shots is still under investigation. Regardless of who's to blame (definitely me) the result was the same, a very twisted ankle.
After a week and a half of walking, running, and dancing on said ankle, I decided (with the STRONG encouragement of those who love and know more than me) that the ankle might need a professional consultation.
An x-ray later, I had my diagnosis... cracked ankle. With a nice fissure gapping the bone like an adorable, maniacal bolt of lightening.
And so, I am officially: an incredible boss with a pain tolerance I didn't know I possessed... and in a cast for the next four weeks.
I demanded it be hot-pink.
As a result, I've decided to attempt to name off a new time occupier (besides television) for each blog I write. First one: poetry.
Now, I am no Walt Whitman, no Robert Frost, no T.S. Eliot, but there's something about writing a poem that gives me the feeling that I can say things I wouldn't be able to articulate in any other form of writing. There are situations that just can't be done justice by being spoken out loud, and even if you're being perfectly honest.
Here's an interesting one I wrote for my poetry class this past semester:
Allow Me to Explain
I know it must seem arbitrary
to pull you aside here and now
of all the places and times
I could have chosen,
but where better to become lonely
then at such a lovely party,
and one with an open bar?
I’m sorry. But if you knew me better
you would agree, that of all the bad things
to be bad at,
I am the best at being terrible
No, I can’t deny it.
It was a perfect fit, that hand.
Not too tense or loose
like a fish on land
gasping for air.
It was a perfect fit, wasn’t it?
How it clicked like too many teeth
after an orthodontist has had his way
with them, don’t you think it’s a sad, lonely
world where they can charge such an awful
amount for that much headache and pain,
when you can get the same for free from me?
Apologies. My mind, it’s like that train,
you know, the one that always gets away
from the tracks, no matter how much
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
I won’t and I can’t.
Not with your steady eyes
like glassy ceilings of sky
holding me back.
And I can’t stay here, and
no, it’s not the food,
it’s not the atmosphere
it’s lovely in here
but there’s this sea I’ve been dying
to visit. I hear there are plenty of fish,
in it, or something like that.
And I’m not ready to be reeled
in, even with a perfect hand,
made into a cookie cutter
lady who’ll stand quietly and
be very good at baking.
It smells delightful over here
by the dessert table, sickly sweet
like birthdays, or weddings.
Don’t you think?
Or do guilty lungs just work better
than heartbroken ones?
Look at the time, I can’t stay.
Do you remember where I left
that coat that you helped me
take off? I guess I’ll get that
by myself, anyway.
Thank you again, for stopping by
to meet me here, at that place between
hello and goodbye, but mostly
Truly, it was delightful to know you.
And really, it’s sad that
if you knew me better
you would agree
that of all the bad things
to be bad at,
I am the best
at being terrible
Bit heavy, but it occupies the time
So la-dee-da, and here's wearing out all of my left shoes and to coming up with other time-wasters to keep me sane. I keep ya posted.