"Even Nobody is Somebody"~Anne Castle
The one thing I miss the most about living at home is being able to come back at the end of a day and report everything to my mother and sister. So I started a silly habit where I can use the most ridiculous English and sound all deep and mystical. I'm not,really,I just enjoy using the language in odd ways. Here is one of many Letters to Nobody. Because telling nobody is somebody. And if you read it,you can be my nobody.
24 October 2011
Dear Nobody,
My day today was rather dull. If it had been a colour,it would have been puce. Puce looks alright but the sound of it is rather horrid. I slept until ten,not because I was tired and not because I had nothing else to do. Just because I could. When I finally woke up,it was to find a dozen pairs of eyes staring down at me from my cream coloured wall. That is not their fault. I stuck those photographs up there. After stumbling down my step ladder,I stared at a rather bleak face in the mirror for a few moments. The me of the night takes little care of her appearance. I washed my face and changed my clothes and examined my fingernails until I felt a little more awake. The sound of the kettle woke the cats and I fought them off my milo-soaked rusk and scratched their little velvet ears for about thirteen and a half minutes.
After opening my blinds and considering making my bed,I typed away on my little laptop and uploaded some photographs that will be forgotten in a few weeks time. I spent a few moments on facebook,but there were very few faces and neither pages nor chapters. My camera got my attention for the next half-hour. Though no images were captured,the weight and feel of it made me smile. Lunch consisted of a chicken wrap and a mug of milo. I turned on the TV,not because anything interested me,but because it’s what one ought to do on one’s day off.
I entered a brief moment of panic when I realized how far behind I was in my journaling. Days had slipped past without being immortalized on the pages of a well-worn notebook. I was forgetting to remember. Armed with several pens and yet another mug of milo,I ventured out to the tiny tree-house in the back yard. I spent the next few hours flat on my back,staring at the roof while my cell phone sang sad tunes that made me remember not so much the actual events of the past year,but rather the feel and smell of them. Not one day was recorded,but myriads were relived.
When my family of sorts returned in a flurry of bags and wet swimsuits and requests for snacks,I found myself back in the kitchen. We,the “adults”,had coffee and a chat. I am not big yet,I thought to myself,I’m still just one of the children. I confirmed that within myself by playing tag with the little girls. When the mother went shopping,I helped the boy with his homework,feeling very mature and smart. He wanted to run around too,so we did until I lost my breath. The house was silent again;the children had rediscovered the joys of the trampoline. Flying through the air gives one a fresh perspective on life. Time passed once more and I helped bath the little girls and learned that fairness is based on the order in which hair is washed. Dinner followed ablutions and I chose water over juice for no particular reason. Juice is a silly sounding word when repeated.
Now,after tinned apples and chocolate mousse,I am back in my little piece of the house,typing away so that you might know what I did today. It’s raining a little and the glorious smell of wet earth drifts through the window on my left. If I part the blinds slightly,as they do in movies,I can see the rain drops splashing down into a puddle lit up by the outside light. If the reflection of the sun is sunbeams,the reflection of the bulb on water must be liquid light. It’s a lovely thought,even if it isn’t true.
So now I sit here on my wooden chair,sipping my decaf coffee (a pointless drink indeed,what is coffee if not caffeine?) and ponder your existence. You are no one,but I am glad I could share my day with you. Mondays are indeed like the colour puce;the sound of them is horrid but the reality is indeed quite bearable,if rather dull.
Because I no longer live at home,I feel as though I have taken the first small step into adulthood. This,along with a series of not so unfortunate events,has made me ponder the subject of growing up. It is my unprofessional opinion that there is no such thing. I don't think we grow up,I think we grow into ourselves. The closer we grow to Jesus,the more we realize who our true selves are. I have,over the past few weeks,begun to see the fine line between the me people see and the me I really am.
I like the rain,blogging and weird earrings. I think Winnie the Pooh is the most quotable book ever. I take photos and journal every single day because I am horrified at the thought of forgetting even one day of my life. My hair is long because I like it long and I have no desire to cut it. I like hippies and peace signs and 1974 VW vans. I want seven children one day,five of my own and two adopted. I like dandelions,cats and the colour purple. I think daisies are the most beautiful flowers ever and that orchids are extremely overrated. I like all kinds of music,except for heavy metal. I don't care about politics and I think graffiti is an amazing art form. I love drawing,dancing and odd nicknames. I don't know how to swim. I know that my friends are the best in the world. I miss my mom more than I have ever missed anyone or anything. I'm scared of geese and crossing roads.
I love Jason Miraz,John Mayer and Taylor Swift. I think hand-written letters are the most thoughtful things on earth. I believe that you are never too old to enjoy swinging. I think poetry that makes little sense is the most enjoyable. I am utterly in love with Jesus my King and the future He has planned for me. I might never grow up,but I will keep growing into myself. Unashamedly and openly ME.
I miss you Mawma,it's been a while
