Here’s a little something I wrote last night. I’ve been waiting for inspiration for a project in school, and this sort of came from that. (It seems there’s no other inspiration for me anymore…) It’s different from what I’ve written before, I think, more the likes of stream of consciousness or whatever the fancy term is. But it’s still pretty controlled and pretty and stuff. It think. For me. So yeah.
The Neighbor’s Pink Rose
I’ve got so many of these little things I’d like to say to you. These little pieces of words put together. Stitched together, loose string, coming apart at the seams and all that. The needle’s too big, makes holes the size of Mars. The ball of thread completely undone, rolling down the stairs. Neighbor’s cat. Likes to eat, doesn’t play too much, but sometimes – well he can get pretty excited.
There was a gorgeous pink rose in the neighbor’s garden. It reminded me of you. I don’t know why. Not that you’d be pink, it’s just that… I thought it pretty. It was pretty, kind of like you. It’s like, yes, I can see pretty all over, but there’s just nothing that compares to you. And the way the leaves, and the rest of the garden was already brown and basically dead. Rotten, smelly. Soggy. You’re not, though, that’s not why it reminded me of you… You’re the pretty, perfect, in the midst of all the dead, rotten, junk. They’re all junk, those… They’ve got nothing on you.
No but I keep staring at that rose, though. The way it looks so radiant there. Radiant. That’s the word I thought of the other day – radiant. I was thinking, trying to find a perfect adjective, a perfect word, to really capture that flower; to really bring it to life. Captivating. Just not colorful enough. Lively. Well that gets closer, much closer. It’s pretty good, too, actually. But that rose though, all high and mighty, lonely above the wet ground. Radiating that sort of cold hue of pink it had on, it wore it like a mask, like a carnival mask, a pretty outfit. Kind of like you, with that hoodie the other day. That pink one. The pink one.
Pink, no, it wasn’t pink. I don’t remember, but I don’t think so, why would you wear pink? But it was radiating, it was so alive there, that’s the word. Alive.
You are alive. You are alive to me. I mean, of course you are, and to all the others too, you’re alive and walking about and talking, laughing, smiling (that smile, though, that smile just murders me) and all that, but you make me alive, too. You are what alive means, to me. You are ALIVE. I’m only alive when I’m with you. The whole world happens when you’re near. But it does, though, and I can’t stop it. The smiles, the rainbows, the yellow hippos… Okay, that doesn’t even exist, but when I’m closer to you it’s like anything is possible. Like yellow hippos. Even yellow hippos. (My pen is yellow, that’s why.) And black, but that’s not relevant. Pink is.
The faint little blushing of your cheeks when I make you laugh. I could be the biggest, most ridiculous clown on this planet, for you. I can be. I wanted to be. Oh, I love making you laugh! Even if you think I’m a total idiot, I’ll pretend I don’t even know how to… Anything. And it’s true, though. But it’s true! My brain turns into mush when you look at me. When I talk to you – but mostly when you look at me.
I’m sort of afraid that the neighbor’s cat (the one I mentioned before) is going to ruin the flower. I mean, even though it’s so radiant and lovely and alive, it’s sort of leaning over, probably getting rotten in the roots. Bad influence of those around it. (This is not a reference to your friends.) One little paw, one tiny pawing to that stem, that green, soggy little thing, and it’s gone. The pink will continue to shine there, on the ground, for a moment, for a day, or two. Maybe two, until it’s just another spot, another brown piece of mush in the garden. Another rotten ray of something formerly known as elegant.
Oh, but that is so you, isn’t it? Elegant… Just the word, just the sound of it, the taste! The color. Is there any other color more elegant than pink? – Probably. But none as lovely as you. And don’t even try to tell me that this doesn’t make any sense! Your skin tone, that skin color, it’s just so… Well it’s… That’s. Just! Well, that’s for another day…
And I’m not just comparing you to a rose because it’s “romantic”. I don’t think boys find it very romantic to be compared to a rose. Any rose, even a rotten soggy garden rose. Or any other flower, for that matter. Men. Not boys. Or boys too. But I didn’t mean to call you juvenile. Although… No, nevermind. I’m just making this statement, this comparison, this idea, (you as a rose) because I looked at it, through the window, and I thought “oh wow”, and thought of you. I don’t know why it reminded me of you, I really don’t. But it did.
So there’s a very big chance you’ll never get to read this. Great chance. That these words will never bask in the glory of your brown eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, shining their light upon them. Radiating. Like lightnings. Not like the rose – your eyes are not gentle. Beautiful, but not gentle (better rude and not ginger). No, actually, better the other way. I prefer you to any doctor. Or master. Just you. With those brown, un-gentle, beautiful eyes.
Elegant. That is you, most definitely. But not in the classic way. Just not in the common way. Or common indeed, depends on how you categorize the word. More like in the way you carry yourself (does that sound too feminine, too?). How you are. Behave. Smile. Especially how you smile.
I’d like to imagine, though, hope, even. Hope. That maybe one day you would. If this turns out proper. Properly written, properly thought out, properly anything. Everything. It’s not anything everything I’d render helpless in front of you. For you to judge. Into your care. It has to be ready, you know like that rose in the glass jar in the movie? I think it was in Disney, most likely, it was an animation. It faded, though. I wouldn’t want this to fade. The flower, that is. Or you.
It was walking around in the garden, the other day, today, the cat. Didn’t go close to the rose, so that’s okay. But just walking around, minding his business. Like any other cat would ever do. (I don’t remember where I was going with this, I got caught thinking about the brown fur of its back.) Fudge. It’s the color of fudge. He’s a very funny cat, though, Fudge. (No, I don’t know his name, I’ve never asked.) There’s a word, there, I’m trying to remember. Oikukas. That’s it. Oikukas. That’s a very Finnish thing to say. Well, obviously, I wrote it in Finnish. It means tricky. He’s a very tricky cat. All sort of a trickster, but cute as a button. Interesting word, by the way, oikukas. It sort of sounds like, sort of means ‘oi who’s there?’, but at the same time ‘oh he’s gone to pick some flowers’. But it’s you right there, and I’m off to pick you some wild flowers! (See, I told you I could bring it back to the point. Don’t doubt me.) What wild flowers, you ask. Well that pretty pink one, of course. The garden looks like no one’s been there since spring.
I’ve always been a male, in my head. The me, the character, the one that speaks inside my head when I’m alone. It’s always been male. I don’t know why, though, but it has. And you’re a woman. Female. Feminine. I wonder why. Perhaps it’s because of the pink hoodie. The one I imagined on you. The one I imagined you with. The one I imagined. I’m always imagining you. Sometimes I think I imagined that pink rose too, but no, it’s there, still standing, barely. Trying its best to survive. And I guess so are you.
You shouldn’t have to, though. Try. You should be one of those that stay pretty through the whole course, until the very end, until past the finish line and beyond. You should be one of those that never age, that never die, that never fade. Always gorgeous, pink and alive. (And as long as I’m here, you will be.) I can’t enter your head. Unfortunately. Oh, the wonders and wonderful things I could know and do if I could! That’s the thing, the problem: you never truly know someone. You don’t know if the roots are rotten, if the grass is wet, if the seeds are spoilt. You just see that radiant bloom, such graceful, elegant fragile thing. That graceful, beautiful thing.