Head in the Clouds.

I eat my meals alone. Every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I normally spend in solitude, glancing up at stragglers gradually making their way to food (if you can call the chicken fingers, french fries, and soft serve ice-cream food). Before, I avoided the crowds and ate at off hours. Now, I thirst for the people, the faces of strangers. I have food in front of me, but I get my nutrition elsewhere; from the people's actions, expressions, and words around me. Conversations drift into my ears, which appear to be clogged with my earbuds and the sounds of Bon Iver and Dave Matthews, but really, I hear only the sounds of the bustling around me with my music on mute.
I gather inspiration from my fellow peers, although most of the time, they don't feel like 'peers' per say, seeing as I'm going to be twenty, and most of them act like they are pushing twelve. I must admit that despite the gap in my understanding of them and their comprehension of me, they do give me much material for which to write.
For instance, dinner for me today was spent, as usual, alone. Please don't misconstrue my words; the introvert in me craves to hear only my thoughts, and thus dinner alone is a blessing to me where most would consider it a very awkward curse. When you sit at a table alone, of course, no one is in front of you to block your vision, so I had a perfect view of a table right in my line of sight.
Three people sat at the table, but the one who caught my attention the most was the girl, side-kicked by two guys. She was in her late teens, early twenties, probably older than I, but one would never realize it by observing her; her body was that of a sprite, short in stature with limbs so twiggy that, had a butterfly flapped its wings, the wind from the motion would have sent her sprawling. The sprite-appearance was only emphasized more by her unruly blond hair, not curly but crimped and the leafy-green jacket she wore. Through my undercover earbuds, I could hear all about how she cheated on her exams by stealthily writing on her hands (probably with sprite-like speed). At one point she looked at me with such energy, I thought I could reach out and harness some for my own use. She was lithe and young, a spirit still maturing.
I'm not writing this because I admire her; it's difficult for me to admire anyone who takes the easy way out like cheating. But in her I found a spark of inspiration, something that made me pull out my laptop right on the spot and start writing.


I've decided I'm in need of a change, a bit of a makeover for Lauren. It would be nice to have the money to change my wardrobe because God knows there are numerous outfits out there I would kill to have, but more near and dear to my heart is the fact I'm finally ready to embrace my passion. As of next semester, I will be an English major, and I am determined to embrace what I was always meant to do.
I've had so many people tell me that I have a God-given gift or natural talent, but I don't see it. No matter how hard I try to appreciate my work, I cannot see my ability. I write because I want to do so, not because I think I am great at it. It is my therapy, my passion. Instead of majoring in English because I 'know' I'm good at writing, I'm doing so because I love it. If all I ever had was my laptop and time, I would write and write and write... stories, blogs, books, novels, poetry... You name it, I'd write it. Regardless of pay or who would read it, I would write. I think for me, that is the definition of passion.
So... I've decided my goal for the future is to put pen to paper every day, because as any artist knows, practice makes you better. I want to one day write a book where a reader can't move her eyes fast enough to satisfy her fervor for the plot; I want to write a poem about a child that when a mother reads it, it will move her to tears one line and have her laughing at the next; most of all, I dream of writing a character whom someone will connect with so well that the page is a mirror. Hey, why not dream big?