Friday, June 17, 2011
My learning could be compared to a boring book. You keep turning the pages, patiently awaiting the end, but nothing ever happens—so I choose to write it myself. The shocking white of a new, blank page as, slowly, blue script crawls in-between its lines (at times straight, others crooked) is both exhilarating and frightening. At first, the hand which yields the pen is uncertain—it's not yet accustomed to the new texture of sandpaper; sealed time the hourglass spilled all over. Imagery's capturing of vivid moments shines through the sand, some words fading while others start to whisper in black: growing, growing, growing, their vibrations press from within the pages where lists begin to appear. Start this, finish that: due yesterday, tomorrow, or today? One day, grown so sharp, they like arrows pierce past the paper's flesh. So overwhelmed is my author's mind, that the battalion begins. Smoke curls from the exploded cannons, stinging my eyesight and clouding everything; onyx blotches of ink accumulate, showing mistakes that can't be unmade; rain falls and pours, pours, pours, making rivers of my words. And all the while, the script crawls on, pursuing its path of red ink…Until, suddenly, it stops. The sun rises and the arrows retreat, finally conquered; smoke clears and relief dries the rain, summer come at last...It's time for a new day, time to turn another page. This, a book as its pages are slowly filled, is the metaphor for my learning. It's the way I feel and learn as the school days crawl by, each bringing me closer to the end of the semester.