So, I'm fairly new here (by fairly new I mean I just started today, yep), and I thought a good way to introduce myself might be through my writing. I hope to write a full-length fiction novel in the future, but for now I mostly stick to poetry and prose simply because I haven't found the inspiration to work on my novel idea yet.
I wrote this piece thinking about J. D. Salinger's quote, "Poets are always taking the weather so personally." It was featured in the Prose tag on tumblr and got quite a bit of recognition, which is always a good feeling. I'd love to hear your guys' thoughts on it. It seems like a pretty relaxed community here.
You can find me on tumblr as petrichorally, and my writing tumblr is askylum.
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A famous man once said that poets take the weather so personally.
I find it hard not to when I can see so plainly how weather can exactly describe a person.
That girl you always see walking everywhere by herself? Shes a thunderstorm. At first she seems cool, steady, but something about her makes it clear shes not, like the metallic taste before the downpour. Up close shes powerful. Heavy with anxiety and regret, shes erratic, torrential. Shes drowning you and you want the crescendo of rain and emotion to let up, but at the same time you cant help but enjoy the drops on your skin and how she washes everything away except the dim reflections of other people in the streetlights. You loved her once until you moved into solitude. Without anything to muffle it, the thunder became too much to handle, frightening as it shook your very foundation. Then, as quickly as she arrived, she had vanished.
The boy that plays his guitar on the street corners for change is a drought. He was once peaceful, full of life. The strike of his fathers hand beat upon him like the sun, exhausting his every resource, his every happy memory. Just one look at him makes your mouth go dry, but as any sudden desert does, he keeps fighting to make a living and replenish what was once his - comfort, joy. One day this heat will let up and youll realise your hopelessness was a mistake as he emerges from the newly-watered soil of his existence.
A woman bought her coffee from you this morning and you couldnt even tell she was your age from the lines of her face. Shes a blizzard, who has suffered more loss than anyone in this little town. The searing heat of the caverns of her heart has been blown away by the storm. She let the pain consume her and what started as gentle snowflakes has been blasted outward. You can hear the wind against the windows of your soul and the drifts build up at your door. You think of how tragic it is that shes trapped you here but your bills have been paid in self-worth and so at least, in here, its warm. Eventually, shes envious and tired and her angered mourning releases you. The only reminder of her forceful isolation upon you is the puddle of her melted sorrow spreading in your lawn. A week later, its gone and youve already forgotten.
And I, I am the weather too. This one you know, and Ive seen it in your eyes when we lie together. Those nights, I am not beside you. I am the stars, mysterious and infinite, stretching what you deem to be beyond your reach. I am complex and divinely beautiful, and you cant seem to fathom my existence in your life. I am the gentle breeze that carries the scent of grass you never get to smell over the exhaust of your car. I am the soft ground beneath your feet, constantly shifting so you never know quite where its safe to step. I am the fleeting clouds and I take on unknown shapes as I race for the horizon. And I am the blue sky that you have so helplessly fallen into, and it feels like youve left your stomach on the ground, but you dont mind the tingling it brings.
If everyone could view people as I do, I think more people would take the weather personally. |
