I haven’t had any inclination to write anything worthy of publishing for my anorexic list of readers. Everything has become so trivial, so unimportant compared to the physicality of living actual life. And lately, I’ve abandoned my only other source of therapy: recording the days’ events in my neat leather bound in hopes that, maybe, one day when I’m old and grey I’ll look back at it and reminisce over the delicious details of my youth. There are empty pages haunted by lonely lines where my inky words should be. They stare at me, mocking my lame inability to translate the often monumental revelations that come to life; I stare back in defeat. I suppose some days I’m a writer, and some days I’m not. However, today feels like one of those days where my thoughts and words have found that harmonic melody, and writing comes at ease.
Lately, I’ve been reading through old journals, and sometimes I wish I could blog as beautifully as I write; but oftentimes, my words fall short of wonderful when I set down my pen and place my fingers, instead, on the smooth, black keys of Harver. The words don’t flow out as fluidly or as personally as they do when I’m staring down at a blank sheet of paper. Instead, they seem withdrawn and censored: empty of the honesty that makes good writing exceptional. Maybe if I blogged with the same candor, people would understand me better; I don’t think there is one person out there who truly knows who I am. It bothers me sometimes, but I like to think my mystery adds to the beauty of life.
I’m Erika Alc. I’m twenty years old, and ever since I was little I’ve been afraid of growing up. I’m a barista at a coffee shop in mall filled with clientele who don’t know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino. Walking through a college campus in the afternoon, listening to wind sweep through the trees or the rain pitter-patter against the pavement is one of my favorite parts of the day. I’m comfortable with silence; sometimes things don’t have to be said. I believe everything has a story: a gum wrapper left behind in a subway car, a lonely tire cast off to the side of the road, or a missing letter to a neighborhood sign. I’m easily awestruck by everything around me; inspiration can be found everywhere if you give it the opportunity to find you. Some people call me weird, but I enjoy days that are cold and cloudy. They’re perfect for reading books or brainstorming brilliant ideas. I once thought I was in love, but if what they say about it is true, then I was simply under the wrong impression. Right now, for the first time in my life, I’ve found someone I can trust my heart with entirely, without a single dust of doubt, and its a great feeling.
Of course, there’s much more to say, but stories take time; if only I were a writer more often.
