Thinking

Thinking was never my greatest subject in school. It would travel off the task to darker places than what was assigned, but my friend became the teacher, and I’m confident I passed this exam. They told me they believe I’m addicted to the pain, afraid to get better, then asked me why I surround myself with the poetry and music. No beats are missed when I tell them my answer in three parts;

I. I read the poems in search for the comfort in knowing there are others with the same pains, struggles, and frustrations. That I am not alone in every thing I feel, think, and overthink. I love the realness every metaphor can hold.

II. I listen to the music for the same beautiful relationship between the lyrics and my life, carried along by the sounds they create.

III. I write not to be trapped by the pain, but to release it, turn it into something other than everything trapped in my brain, to keep me going until the next good day.

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Write Alone

I don’t like when people look over my shoulder as I write. There is a specific kind of embarrassment in the  vulnerability of someone witnessing the unfinished thoughts and emotions I am trying to create into imagery. I fear the untimely judgement that follows.

A Nurse in the Time of WWI

*This is a fictional letter written from the perspective of a nurse to her husband during WWI*

Joseph,

I’ve been in France for a while now, and it has been way harder than you can even imagine. They assigned me to what they call around here as ‘the tent.’ Though I’ve never seen them (we aren’t allowed to leave the tent, always available if need be), I’ve heard talking from the doctors who help bring in the wounded that we are somewhere near the trenches. They dug trenches to fight from, and it’s so loud. There’s screaming and crying and sometimes, we hear the drones overhead, the other nurses described as little planes used to fight with. I’m writing this over the course of a couple nights, so you’ll have to excuse any inconsistencies.

Before I continue, I need you to know that I care deeply for you. I miss you dearly and couldn’t imagine being in the position of these soldiers, or their wives at home. I understand their pain to a certain extent, but could never fully understand. I hope all is well with the kids. Please make sure that Gabe is eating well, and that Alex is watching out for her brother. Oh, I hope you’re dealing with this well, I hate that I left while you were so sick. I volunteered with the VAD (Voluntary Aid Detachment) because I wanted to help people where my expertise would be better utilized. I feel that these soldiers need someone empathetic to work on and with them. They are all so worried, being without their loved ones, not knowing whether or not they’ll ever make it home. I just want to make it at least a little bit better here for them, and give them some hope for a future. A shoulder to cry on, quite literally.

I work with a lot of nurses and doctors. The male doctors are rather rude. The think they’re better than us just because they’re male and we’re nurses. The only thing the other nurses seem to care about is going home, or swooning over the doctors. It’s a bit infuriating and sometimes I just want to go home too, but I always put my patients first. I just keep telling myself that these people need me, but it just keeps getting worse and worse. Yesterday, I saw a portable xray machine for the first time. A remarkable tool, really, but today, I witnessed a man with burns everywhere, and oh, the smell. It was horrible. They called me in to try and help him out, and I learned what a flame thrower is. It’s a horrible weapon they created that blows fire. He was a lost cause, and I cried for hours.

I fear that I might start becoming numb to others pain, a stone heart like the other nurses. I no longer cry or cringe at the wailing from the injured. They’ve had me working on the US and French soldiers and those that don’t speak English are harder to operate on because I don’t really understand what they need. I still do my best to give them the company they need while fulfilling my job as a nurse. Most of them are so grateful, and it makes me wonder how they got here. I guess most of them were deported, sent to war against their choosing.

I hope this makes it to you,

Marysa

Me Gustas Cuando Callas by Pablo Neruda

Because I speak English, I’m only posting the English translation.

It took me a little bit to truly understand this poem, and it’s got me a little messed up. It’s a very emotional love type of poem. it is about the author who is in love with this woman, but essentially she’s distant even though they are close. It’s as if the love isn’t really there, though he loves her. Even if the feeling isn’t mutual. He’s expressing the silence and coldness in his relationship. He is expressing the pain of being with them at the same time the love he feels for them. The last lines express how just a smile, or one word (One expression of their love, or presence) would be enough to make him happy. The last line trips me up a bit, but this is my interpretation of the poem. It’s a beautiful poem, but kind of heartbreaking. I really like this poem though. It’s incredible, and I aspire to write as well someday. 

Link to Original and English translation: http://thue.stanford.edu/jacquie/callas.html

I Like You When You Are Quiet

I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent,
and you hear me from far away, and my voice does not touch you.
It looks as though your eyes had flown away
and it looks as if a kiss had sealed your mouth.

Like all things are full of my soul
You emerge from the things, full of my soul.
Dream butterfly, you look like my soul,
and you look like a melancoly word.

I like you when you are quiet and it is as though you are distant.
It is as though you are complaining, butterfly in lullaby.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
let me fall quiet with your own silence.

Let me also speak to you with your silence
Clear like a lamp, simple like a ring.
You are like the night, quiet and constellated.
Your silence is of a star, so far away and solitary.

I like you when you are quiet because it is as though you are absent.
Distant and painful as if you had died.
A word then, a smile is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it is not true.

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

*Warning Spoilers*

Oh, god. Where do I begin? This is a horrible book. It is interesting, keeps your attention, flows nicely and has everything needed to be considered a great novel. So, how is it horrible? Well, it’s disturbing. There are two main characters-Lennie and George. Lenny has a mental disability and has the mental capacity of a toddler, so George basically takes care of him. They work where they can and talk of plans/dreams of owning their own land, working for themselves, and owning animals. In the beginning, right before they go to work at a ranch, it talks about how they stopped giving Lennie mice because he’d pinch their heads and kill them when they bit him. They gave him the mice to pet because he likes to pet soft things. This is mentioned when George is trying to take a dead mouse from Lennie. One he picked up. Later on in the book, they shoot and old dog in the head. Continue reading and Lennie kills a puppy. The puppy made a motion as if he was going to bite him, so he slapped it. He threw the dead puppy in frustration, then picked it back up again. Not long after, Curley’s wife (Curley is the boss’s son), allows Lennie to pet her hair because of its softness. When he tells her to stop, he doesn’t understand and he grabs ahold of her hair. She panics, and screams. This causes Lennie to panic and he covers her mouth and nose in his hand, holding her on place. She thrashed around and continued to scream, so Lennie got angry and started shaking her. Doing so, killed her. He broke her neck. Lennie runs and hides to where George told him to if anything ever happened. Everyone finds out what happened and George goes to where Lennie is now hiding, everyone else who works on the ranch not far behind. George has Lennie face away while they speak. Lennie gets all excited because they’re talking about how they have each other and their future plans. Lennie tells George that they should go now and start that new life. George agrees and shoots Lennie in the back of the head, which is pretty messed up. It was kind of to keep Lennie from dying alone or locked up. Lennie never killed out of meanness, but of misunderstanding. Still, it’s disturbing.

Link to Of Mice and Men: http://nisbah.com/summer_reading/ff_mice_and_men_steinbeck.pdf

Eye Color

The first thing I always notice about people is their eyes. It’s why an incredible amount of people can say that I like their eyes. Eye color…I do actually have a preference. I feel relatively every eye color is nice, but I do actually prefer blue, green, or both. Sometimes you’ll get a few exceptions like hazel. I’m not saying your eyes aren’t nice if you have brown eyes, I’m just stating my preference.

My eyes are always blue. The shade of blue is constantly different, and sometimes they’ll have a bit of green, gold, or grey thrown in. But my eyes are always blue. I haven’t quite figured out what causes the change in my eye color because it always seems different.

I said I had a preference in eye color. And yes, I do, but I have another preference. I met someone during my freshman year of high school, who I was lucky enough to get crazy close to. Their eyes are my favorite by far. I’m not just saying it because they were close to me, I’m saying it because I mean it. Their eyes always had green in them, sometimes mainly green, sometimes not. I don’t quite know if their eyes were hazel or green, but I do know they were…are gorgeous. They’re striking, mesmerizing. I would just get lost in them. They conveyed emotion, and a kind of softness I’d never seen from anyone before. They had some gold in them a lot of the time, complimenting the shade of green I’m unfamiliar with. Sometimes they’d be just more brown than green, but honestly it was still the most gorgeous eye color I’d ever seen.Even now, I don’t feel like I’m describing them properly because they were always hard to explain. The color was never really consistent tbch. I miss those eyes.

You know who you are: I miss you. Your eyes. Everything. 

This post is ironic because I’m horrible with eye contact.