This week I did quite a bit of writing. I felt for the first time the freedom to express my thoughts in a patterned way: in a way of words I mean. Even though I enjoy my roommate's company most days, I have become extremely self-conscious around her. She uses very precise language (even though she is by no means "exact" in the sense that her speech has all kinds of usage errors and general inaccuracies - geez I hope I spelled that right) and she presses me for precise language. If I offer vague descriptions of my day, she'll question and prod until I'm flustered and embarrassed. Now, I generally just say, "fine" or "okay" because I don't really feel like putting the energy into a precise description.
Anyway, this paralyzing self-consciousness in my speech transfers to my writing most days. But this week, I felt (for whatever reason) a lot more free than I have in a long time. SO I wrote the following limerick:
Whenever I start to wonder why
I'm missing the sunny days of July
I dream myself a tale
And the fins of a whale
And slip into the sea of my sigh.
The end.
(there's more for later...)
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