Violet

I was opening the door as she was running down the stairs, so I held the door open, letting her rush outside before I entered the dimly lit stairwell. At a first glance she seemed beautiful and rude — she never said thank you for opening the door. She was also not from the around here; everyone here is so conscious of saying thank you, in a false niceness kind of way. Unless they’re from the Midwest, that it.

My suspicion proved to be true as she showed back up in her her very beat up black Kia Soul boasting California plates. “LA,” I thought to myself “I’ve seen it before.” She struggled parallel parking into the narrow spot on H St. NE and asked me to help her. I agreed since I’m a terrible parallel parker, been in that predicament before, and could probably use the karma points. After bumping into the car parked in front of hers a couple of times, she finally managed to get into the spot, killed the engine, and went back into the restaurant thought the dark staircase. She forgot to pay, I realized. But she also did not say thank you… Again.

She’s sitting at a bar facing the kitchen. It seemed that she was eating before heading out to move her car, so she was continuing her dinner. Her dark, black and purple hair fell calmly on her shoulders; the curls lay in a beautiful, disorganized mess on top of each other –sprezzatura style. She was wearing black, and her makeup complimented her outfit. Her beauty mark right above the left side of her upper lip reminded me of Lana Del Rey, and I count tell if it was real or not. She had multiple tattoos on her arms, beautiful flowers clearly done by a professional; their colors seemed to have all been put under a dark filter, giving them a somewhat sinister look.

She was chatting with the chef in the kitchen about Los Angeles, shows, and bands. “Oh yeah, the Palladium, I go to a lot of shows there,” she said and continued listing a bunch of bands and artists of which I recognized none. The chef seemed to have very little interest in her or the conversation — he was more focused on working and keeping up with the demand. She finished most of her food, got up, said bye and left. And then it seemed that she was never there to begin with.

It may be mean to say that the only memorable thing about her was her cliché personality. Nothing about her was unique. Nothing about her made me want to talk to her and inquire about her life. It seemed to me that I knew all that she has to say. Now I don’t know whose fault it is. It could be mine for judging a book by its cover. Yet it could also be hers for subscribing so fully to an archetype so that nothing about her is original. Whatever the case may be, she somehow still managed to maker her way into this page.

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Voiceless

I am back from my break, hiatus, hibernation.. whatever you may call it. I’m not sure what it was that made me stop writing. Maybe it was school, and moving, and being “busy,” and seemingly starting a new phase in my life. But for some reason, this passion and need for to see my thoughts typing themselves out in this text box was not there. The passion lied dormant for the past five months or so. And I, I remained voiceless, my ideas weren’t going anywhere, and I felt that I had nothing to write about… which is probably untrue. I had ample opportunities to do what I do best: dissect any topic in any way, shape, or form of my choosing.

So this return, I think, stems from the following:

The other night, I was working on my personal statement for my grad school application –still unreal– and nothing was coming to me. Every sentence that I started typing was quickly erased, and only invisible self-doubt and self-consciousness remained on the white pixels. So, I needed some inspiration and turned to my old blog posts and papers I wrote. At first, it seemed to me that a stranger wrote those works. The writing was eloquent, lively, colorful, vivid. Ideas were coherent, and the language spoke in a discernible voice of some version of me in the past. And as much as I tried to bring this voice back to life in my current writing, I couldn’t. Whatever thoughts I had were bland, gray, and appeared as if they could’ve been uttered by any mediocre writer.

As I lied in bed earlier, unable to fall asleep, I felt it –the stirring in my guts, the neurons firing in my brain (no, I was not tripping on anything), the thoughts racing, and the words coming to life. I felt the hunger of writing, of making sense of thoughts and ideas through words.

And oh what a great feeling it is. I’ve missed it.

Welcome back.