4 Letters

This is an old piece I wrote, but it's been on my mind a lot recently, and thus, I'm republishing it here. Sorry if you've read it before. ~A
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Love. A word. 4 letters.

It can be hollow – a word said to fill a space, a silence. It can be life-changing – the very thing some people live for. Some verbalize the word to everyone they know. Some avoid it. Blaspheme it. Some search high and low for its meaning. For the feeling it should evoke. Or simply to hear it used toward them.

Something I Need To Say

A friend recently came to me, upset with his college’s LGBT group and, in particular, an event they were holding. In celebration of the beginning of LGBT history month, the group held a picnic of sorts in a well-traveled area of campus, with drag shows, a ‘priest’ wandering around, draped in a rainbow shawl, and games such as ‘Pin the Tail on the Bigot’. My friend, a gay man, was disgusted by the display. In his words, “What are straight people supposed to think of this? What am I supposed to think of this?”

Quest'uno è solamente per me.

Ciao, tutti!
Ho deciso di scriver solamente in italiano oggi. Mi dispiace che qualche persone non possono capirmi. Mi mancano parlar e scriver in italiano ogni giorno...ma sono contente di studiarlo ancora. Così. Che cos'è nuovo nella mia vita? La scuola, i compiti, scrivendo, studiando, i teleprogramma, e più. Mi guaduarerò in maggio, penso. Spero. Adesso devo decidere che vorrò essere col mio futuro. Perché non è una decisione importante o niente...

Devo imparare come usar gli accenti sul mio computer. Sono più importante in italiano, e non usargli mi fa pazzo. Forse qualcuno mi imparerai. Ognuno? Ognuno? Bueller? [N.B. Guglielmo mi ha insegnato! Ti voglio bene, Guglielmo!]

Sto realizzando che il mio vocabulario non è buono adesso. Ricordi quando potevo parlare solamente in italiano per ore, di molte teme? Ricordo. Mi manca quell'abilità. È triste che
non posso farlo adesso. Voglio imparare come farlo ancora. Impararerò e vincerò!

Allora, questo è abbastanza più per oggi. Da scriver in italiano usa troppo del mio cervello...

A presto!
~Ambra

3:11pm 10.13.10

Foolish Dreams

She read the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. So honest, so sincere. She could see how she might have been the inspiration. But she didn't know how much of that was her projecting how she felt into his words. It was written about someone, that much he had said. Any why couldn't they be about her? She wanted them to be. To have some sign that her feelings were being reciprocated, even a little bit.

To Write

I can't write poetry or lyrics. Hand me a guitar and tell me to outline a song and I'm lost. Force me into the confines of a structure and I falter. I freeze, my mind goes blank, and I might start to cry. I've tried dozens of times to write a limerick, sonnet, or haiku. My song lyrics come out as drivel. I simply do not possess those skills. The people who do never cease to amaze me.

No music. No poetry. No lyrics. Where does that leave me? It leaves me with the spoken word. Prose. Senseless ramblings, mainly. Sometimes, they develop into a pattern of sorts, but it's pretty rare. I don't think in eloquent phrases. I don't write rhymes that can both bring a smile to your face and cause your heart to wrench. I just...write. It's for me, mostly. Writing helps me sort ouf how I feel - something I struggle with daily - and sometimes assists me in releasing some of the stress and tension that I put on myself. Putting a pen to paper (or fingers to a keyboard) is often all it takes for me to relax, unwind, and get in touch with myself again.

Inspiration is a funny thing. It can come from a word I hear on the radio. A phrase I come across in my dreams. A memory once considered lost. A scent, an image, a stray emotion. A what-if that is out of control. It can hide from me for months, and then sneak up and knock me on my ass. It can control my thoughts, forcing me to lose focus on everything else in the world. It can cause me to lose sleep. I wish I could bottle inspiration up and save it for when I actually had time for it. Alas, that's not the way the world works. I take it when it comes, hate it when it's absent, and always wonder when I will see it again.

If you hate what I write, that's alright with me. I may be too honest for you. I might have an opinion that is in stark contrast to yours. You may think I am too emotional, or too logical, or crazy, or heartless. You may see my need to write in order to discover how I feel as a weakness. And that's okay. You see it how you want to. I see it as the easiest and cheapest way to guarantee my own sanity. I'm sorry if what I write offends you, makes you feel uncomfortable, or seems a little bit too honest and personal. Trust me, it's just a tiny bit of what's going on in my head. Scary thought, right?

12:45pm 10.11.10

What's Wrong?

He raised his head from the table and groggily looked around the room. What time was it? The ever-helpful clock on the wall said it was almost 2am. That didn't seem right, but he trusted the clock better than his own judgment at the moment. He saw on the table beer cans...everywhere. He wasn't sure how many were there. He didn't want to count. However many it was, it wasn't enough to make him feel better or to help him forget. He rested his head in his hands. His head hurt. He raised his head again after a few minutes, pushing his disheveled hair out of his face. It fell right back in to his eyes. He reached for the phone and scrolled to her name in his contact list. It wasn't there. Damn it. He had deleted her number in a moment of finality a few hours before. He'd known it for years, but his mind was a little too fuzzy to come up with the right digits.