The other day I started to work on a creative writing assignment for my LSFY class. Normally to get the juices flowin’, I look through my old journals in case there’s something I can use.
This is something I wrote earlier this year on March 31st at 2:57am:
I love how my house is never silent.
Clock ticks, furnace burns, fish tank trickles, even the house itself speaks as it settles. From what? The day?
The house speaks words need not spoken. Feelings need not described. Memories that don’t need to be recollected and reminisced about. I just need to sit here and listen, interpreting the sounds and come to an understanding.
Generally when I read some of my old writing, the feelings and mindset I had at the time come back. This time was different.
When I wrote this, I was sitting contently in my bed, drowsy, but chuffed to bits, knowing all that separated me from my loved ones were walls and a short walking distance. Upon reading this for the first time in months, I cried because I didn’t feel the same as I did back then. On the contrary, I was baffled as to what could possibly possess me to write with such subtle appreciation for something as inane as the sounds of my house.
I like to believe that I don’t miss my family, my house, and my fish a lot back in Zion, but I haven’t learned how to effectively lie to myself yet.
Posted on October 10th, 2011 by lesliecarranza11
Filed under: Leslie Carranza