At Home

I was born to believe that everything has a purpose. That fate is what we make of it, and that you can ruin your life in a matter of seconds. People often do not argue with me. So that makes me weird.

I like to create other people´s fate by creating their past.

I was on the train coming to school. I had my notebook and a pen in my hand.

I looked around. There was an old man standing with a nice smile looking at the window, imagining something.

I wrote “Old man”. I named him Jack because that’s the name I thought he had. I wrote, “Nicely watching a waterfall thinking of his past love, who had been killed by his enemy on the battlefield”. I wrote, “Finds peace looking at a waterfall because it reminds him of his love´s hair”. I continued “how can a man love someone who passed away without any warning? How can a man love at all? How can this man love? Why does he stand on this waterfall, every day, looking at the face of his love one, reminisce her hair, her eyes, her glance? How can love be this powerful?”

I arrived at school. Then I saw a boy with a cool jacket, at the school gate, he had a notebook in his hand. He was cute.

I wrote “Cute boy” then I scribbled the name Andrew because I like the name, Andrew. I wrote “glancing at his future”; then this: “his thoughts were running wild as in a painting. His curve smile was disturbing the other girls, but his thoughts were stuck in a pallet of colors”; I continued, “How can this boy not notice the effect he has? Who told him not to remain to study art? How can that cute boy remain stuck in fiction? How can he live unhappily? Away from his brushes and paints. Away from his own destiny and not someone else´s”. The cute boy looked at me. “How can that cute boy look at me? Can´t he see I´m weird? Can´t he see I´m broken? What a weird cute boy”.

I enter my classroom. I looked at a girl with blonde hair, just in front of me.

I wrote “Blonde girl”. I noted the name Nicole because I think it would look good on her. I wrote “reading a book alone” and then this “Her blonde hair is not distracting her from her reading because this blonde hair girl loves to read”. I continued “This blonde haired girl was a bookshelf at home, only for her and nobody else. Her only friends are books because people don´t understand why she loves them. She is alone, and she is crazy because of it. This blonde haired girl is mad because of her lack of socializing. Her books do not help her when the night comes when the tears come. Her sadness does nothing for her, but she still lives with it, this golden-haired girl, who happens to be a bookworm, does not like to be alone. But this blonde haired girl feels lonely”.

I went home. But at home, there’s nothing to write about. At home, there’s no mystery, no fate or past. At home I´m alone like that blonde girl. At home I´m lost like that cute boy. At home, I reminisce the time when I wasn´t alone or lost, just like that old man.

There’s no poetry at home.

Luisa Henriques (10K)

May 2017