Textbooks and Novels

Words, everywhere.

A black and white picture; a woman, distraught, dripping in diamonds. An elegant ballroom gown in a large empty room, her presence radiant and gloweringly beautiful. She stands alone, one hand draped along her side.

A small, crude sketch of an elephant, void tail.

Poetry. Simple quotes. My own nondescript words.

The stillness of the weekend provokes an inclination for loneliness, and I am drawn into a state where music alone captures my attention. I have plastered the walls with comfort; colors, smiles and clips of beautiful things.

What is it about the chords, dancing through my small lime green earbuds, that allows such a blissful absence of thought? Another's exploitation of emotion, an expression that allows the listener to feel close to an absolute stranger. I find myself deeply and emotionally tied to these strangers, yet completely ignorant of those who walk through my daily life. Instead of truly learning about people, the same questions [and answers] are repeated daily. Monotonous details of the events of the day completely overshadow actual emotions, and more often than not a 'good' escapes, even when I am far from it.

How are you?

Good.

And you?

Good.

Yet, through music, another's words become my own. Another's emotions shape my own. Risk is absent, and understanding is met immediately rather than developed through a time- devouring struggle. Connections. Life thrives on those tiny connections.

Textbooks and novels: the battle for both.