There are those in the airtight hallway, filled with students held together by suction and a shared need for the global studies homework, whom are distinct and yet invisible to my eyes, verdant and yet opaque from clarity: there are those in the hallway who have become my hair-color people. This squadron of hodgepodge contemporaries probably have names in the yearbook, but to be they are unlabeled entities that exist within the realm of their unique characteristics - that boy always wearing a dark leather jacket, the girl with the flowing blonde hair and pink backpack. Unlike the people I see out in public, for whom I draw up fantastical possibilities and mathematical probabilities, I leave the stories of my hair-color people unpublished in a desk drawer.
Sometimes I know too much already. Words can dart between so-called private conversations where there is no room to catch them in, and I could tell you exactly what each of my friends thinks of "oh that guy" without thinking thrice. Sometimes the letters are forced in front of my eyes and I involuntarily cast aspersions onto the ones who cannot argue with me about it without being reported to a large man in a blue shirt (occasionally boasting a shiny badge). But it makes me wonder - whose frizzy haired blogging girl am I from day to day? And what do my undefined comrades think of "oh that girl?"
to me, you're not the kind of person to have frizzy hair. in my mind, you have red hair. or maybe you're friends with a redhead. my best friend has red hair, and it seems like he influences me to think in ways similar to yours.
ReplyDeletegood post!