kazza_baby
Bluelighter
She rests her cheek on the underside of her arm,
her notebook open to a blank page,
her pen poised to start it's undetermined dance.
She scratches her forehead,
breathes out a mixture of boredom and frustration.
This used to be the drug that made it all okay -
it came so easily,
made her shine so bright.
But amidst her classmates mundane talk,
and her teacher's foreign language;
she seems nothing more than a dulled out girl in a jean jacket.
"What are they talking about?" her seatmate asks.
She tunes in, her hand brushing off wisps of unruly hair from her eyes.
"Um, the project thing," She mumbles and returns to her notebook.
She starts to write,
pausing often,
to glance around the frigid room for some heated point of inspiration.
It comes,
but it is slow.
And though she is oddly amused
that the subject of her words should be her,
she does not care to regard it as a manifestation of her writing abilities.
It is more of an exercise to play around with words,
thus keeping her mind and hands occupied.
Then why doesn't she just listen in class, you ask?
Simple.
She does not want to.
Her eye is itchy and she yawns while scratching it.
Sleep was not sufficient last night as her limbs ached to the point of buzzing.
She stops writing, drops her pen and straightens up.
She listens to tinkling,
and wine coloured voices that waste so much of their spit.
"She starts making a face right in front of me..."
"Could you pass the ruler?"
She smirks and begins to write again.
"Are those shells? Are you eating them? Really? That is sooooo.... wierd!"
She stifles her laughter, shaking her head slightly.
How did someone as oddly shaped as her end up here?
It seemed to be she was sinking without edges in a square world.
She wants to drop by the record store later.
She has enough money to splurge on a new CD.
That hasn't happened in awhile.
And the thought of acquiring ear candy
unheard by her ears and unsung by her lips,
makes her grin.
The same grin fades almost as soon as it settles in between her
cheeks.
"Haw, man..." She mutters.
She has a date on Wednesday.
If she buys the CD now,
she probably won’t have enough left to spend on Wednesday.
She never did let the guy pay.
It was a rule to go Dutch.
She sighs the same sigh,
only now;
a hint of annoyance can be detected.
It was all so unfair.
"Much of data collection..." Or was it collation?
Her eyes flicker upward and her fingers tug at her ear.
Her teacher is eyeing her,
aware that she is doing something unrelated to his subject.
She blinks and looks earnestly at the dusty board -
a futile attempt to prove him wrong.
She fidgets in her chair, one ear listening to the lecture.
"Now, let's complicate your lives further."
She smirks yet again, eyes downcast as she jots down the line.
She looks at the wall clock in the room.
Only fifteen minutes until she is able to go home.
She cannot wait to go home.
Her nose wrinkles at the strong perfume someone has sprayed.
The pretentious scent wafts around the cold room -
as equally pretentious voices 'ooh' and 'aah',
over it's supposedly exquisite smell.
When all it really reminds them of -
is the scent of too sweet plastic flowers with a sour after odour.
The only difference being that one is manufactured by some guy named Ralph Lauren.
The power of a name, huh?
Her hand fumbles for her wallet.
She will buy the CD and play Wednesday by ear.
It is most probable that she will bail.
She assures herself that there are better things to do,
than hang out with someone that will just mess her up.
Even if he's extremely funny, unbelievably kind - whatever.
It's all an act anyway.
She almost convinces herself that she isn't being materialistic at all.
She smiles dryly.
She can almost hear the damned plastic flowers laughing at her.
She inhales the thin, artificial air.
It is the last thing she does before flipping the inked page backwards,
and rereading all she has written.
She feels somewhat betrayed,
yet comforted,
that reading about her isn't as painful as being her.
Maybe tonight,
she'll sleep deep,
and wake up as Audrey Hepburn.
Heck, even some kid in Timbuktu would do.
her notebook open to a blank page,
her pen poised to start it's undetermined dance.
She scratches her forehead,
breathes out a mixture of boredom and frustration.
This used to be the drug that made it all okay -
it came so easily,
made her shine so bright.
But amidst her classmates mundane talk,
and her teacher's foreign language;
she seems nothing more than a dulled out girl in a jean jacket.
"What are they talking about?" her seatmate asks.
She tunes in, her hand brushing off wisps of unruly hair from her eyes.
"Um, the project thing," She mumbles and returns to her notebook.
She starts to write,
pausing often,
to glance around the frigid room for some heated point of inspiration.
It comes,
but it is slow.
And though she is oddly amused
that the subject of her words should be her,
she does not care to regard it as a manifestation of her writing abilities.
It is more of an exercise to play around with words,
thus keeping her mind and hands occupied.
Then why doesn't she just listen in class, you ask?
Simple.
She does not want to.
Her eye is itchy and she yawns while scratching it.
Sleep was not sufficient last night as her limbs ached to the point of buzzing.
She stops writing, drops her pen and straightens up.
She listens to tinkling,
and wine coloured voices that waste so much of their spit.
"She starts making a face right in front of me..."
"Could you pass the ruler?"
She smirks and begins to write again.
"Are those shells? Are you eating them? Really? That is sooooo.... wierd!"
She stifles her laughter, shaking her head slightly.
How did someone as oddly shaped as her end up here?
It seemed to be she was sinking without edges in a square world.
She wants to drop by the record store later.
She has enough money to splurge on a new CD.
That hasn't happened in awhile.
And the thought of acquiring ear candy
unheard by her ears and unsung by her lips,
makes her grin.
The same grin fades almost as soon as it settles in between her
cheeks.
"Haw, man..." She mutters.
She has a date on Wednesday.
If she buys the CD now,
she probably won’t have enough left to spend on Wednesday.
She never did let the guy pay.
It was a rule to go Dutch.
She sighs the same sigh,
only now;
a hint of annoyance can be detected.
It was all so unfair.
"Much of data collection..." Or was it collation?
Her eyes flicker upward and her fingers tug at her ear.
Her teacher is eyeing her,
aware that she is doing something unrelated to his subject.
She blinks and looks earnestly at the dusty board -
a futile attempt to prove him wrong.
She fidgets in her chair, one ear listening to the lecture.
"Now, let's complicate your lives further."
She smirks yet again, eyes downcast as she jots down the line.
She looks at the wall clock in the room.
Only fifteen minutes until she is able to go home.
She cannot wait to go home.
Her nose wrinkles at the strong perfume someone has sprayed.
The pretentious scent wafts around the cold room -
as equally pretentious voices 'ooh' and 'aah',
over it's supposedly exquisite smell.
When all it really reminds them of -
is the scent of too sweet plastic flowers with a sour after odour.
The only difference being that one is manufactured by some guy named Ralph Lauren.
The power of a name, huh?
Her hand fumbles for her wallet.
She will buy the CD and play Wednesday by ear.
It is most probable that she will bail.
She assures herself that there are better things to do,
than hang out with someone that will just mess her up.
Even if he's extremely funny, unbelievably kind - whatever.
It's all an act anyway.
She almost convinces herself that she isn't being materialistic at all.
She smiles dryly.
She can almost hear the damned plastic flowers laughing at her.
She inhales the thin, artificial air.
It is the last thing she does before flipping the inked page backwards,
and rereading all she has written.
She feels somewhat betrayed,
yet comforted,
that reading about her isn't as painful as being her.
Maybe tonight,
she'll sleep deep,
and wake up as Audrey Hepburn.
Heck, even some kid in Timbuktu would do.
