A Writer's Pad

March 3, 2012
By , Pittsburgh, PA
Not all of the time, but sometimes there is a ray of golden sunshine at the end of the tunnel. I watch the minutes tick away so slowly that it is unbelievable that they are actually only sixty seconds. Rapping my pencil impatiently on the desk, fifteen minutes is like a lifetime. Fifteen more minutes, 900 seconds. Only that long, and I would be free. Glaring out the window as I long for the green leaves of a nearby tree swing temptingly right outside the window. I close my eyes and drift outside, my feet pounding the green earth as I dash through the sunlight. My teacher is yelling at me in the distance, and I snap out of it just in time to notice a warning pass on my desk. It’s a bright yellow slip of paper, like it’s meant to brighten up your day with the sun-shiny color. Never have I ever received one before today; I’ve always been a good student really. Sometimes I just can’t help but forget about school for a bit though. Again I look out the window; the cars of awaiting parents are already lined up outside the office as they wait for their children to come dashing out through the double doors. I tap my pencil to get myself to pay attention before I glance at the worksheet before me.

“Now this is homework if you don’t finish it.” Mrs.Campbell warns us, but I have no plan to even attempt to finish it.

“Or I could do it at home…” I mutter under my breath, tucking the sheet into my science folder carefully to avoid wrinkling it. Then finally the bell rings. Every student hops out of their chairs, and makes a run for the door as though the teachers might change their mind about the day’s schedule. I sigh and stand up slowly, gathering my pile of books into my arms and walk out the door.
It’s a typical Friday, every senior is walking around like they own the place as they nonchalantly saunter down the hallway, some looking as though they are physically trying to withhold themselves from running like everybody else to their lockers. I roll my eyes as one boy in front of me takes an especially long time just to walk to his locker. Sighing, I divert from the overpowering stream of people around me to get to my locker on the other side of the hallway. I spin the dial of my lock with a familiar flick of my wrist, and pull desperately on the lock. Alas, it refuses to open and I let out a groan as I reenter the lock combination and pull again, this time it opens easily. I rip open my locker and tear open my backpack as I stuff it with the books for work that I have already planned to finish on Sunday. Finally I zip it tight and make a dash for the yellow school bus to freedom.
I can barely last the entire 30 minutes, then I hop off and dash down the pathway to the little house. I run up the steps and ditch my backpack before grabbing my notebook and running right back out the door. And there I go, my feet leading me on the beaten path down into the forest, through branches and leaves and plants. My feet are pounding the earth and my hair is whipping in the wind as I allow myself to sprint the final 60 yards.
Before I skid to a stop before my favorite spot, a rock tucked secretively in the corner of the river. Not a single sound can be heard except for the crisp flow of rushing water and the sound of my own heart thudding in my chest. Smiling proudly as I cross the river easily by balancing across a small line of rocks. I teeter on the last one, inhaling deeply before leaping onto the bank of the river on the other side. Seating myself cautiously on the short ledge, and letting my feet dip into the cool water I allow for water to run over my overstressed feet. The sun warms my legs and arms as I begin to write. Another poem, the only thing that really sets me free.
“The winds from far off distance blow right through my heart; every scent touching my soul in a new way or part; a beautifully untold story of perhaps two people together, two people tied to each other with no tether”
Sometimes my poems really awake my senses, all of a sudden I can see all of the little things and feel the enduring life in the grass. That is all writing does, just allows me to feel no boundaries for the first time. The issues of high school melt away behind me in a daze as I sit there and scribble down words. Sometimes they don’t make sense, just a jumble of letters put together in hopes that it will flow. And more often than not it just does, the words just flow easily off of the page, mixing with the green grass and crystal clear water. Surrounding me with simple beauty, every tree can have its own story, every blade of grass its own tale to unfold. The matter that they do not speak our language is no problem for me. They speak to me when the wind whistles through them, and when the flowers begin to bloom on the trees. I hear the sound of nothing but nature. Sometimes I see the colorful fish dance in the waters, coaxing me down into the clean waters, to escape. But I must deny them, for I have science homework waiting for me when I get home. I let myself just sit there for a moment, just let the nature surround me, before I have to return to the drudgery of everyday.
But I will return, every day, to remind myself that there is more in life than school. More to life than grades and schools and worries, that sometimes I should just go with the flow of that river, and let my troubles stay with school. Although I try to hold onto that feeling it abandons me every day at the entrance of that academic prison, leaving to return to its hiding place in the forest behind my house. So all I can do is impatiently dream along through the school day and wait for that fateful bring of the bell, and for that wonderful school bus to take me to my home. But I am never really home until I run down to my own world, and write. That’s when I am really home.





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