To Whom It May Concern version 2.0

This part of TWIMC is much more autobiographical than the first one (link http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/viewtopic.php?t=78407). It's basically a rant inspired by the girl I have a crush on and the resulting "drama".

From The Sound and the Fury

Jason threw into the fire. It hissed, uncurled, turning black. Then it was gray. Then it was gone. Caddy and Father and Jason were in Mother's chair. Jason's eyes were puffed shut and his mouth moved, like tasting. Caddy's head was on Father's shoulder. Her hair was like fire, and little points of fire were in her eyes, and I went and Father lifted me into the chair too, and Caddy held me. She smelled like trees. 

To Whom It May Concern:

Hair like fire. Eyes like the coffee she drinks every day. Hair like the brush stroke I can never repeat, straight until a moment of change switches the direction and finishes cleanly. I can never repeat. I can never draw it. Never desecrate with my art. Too good. Too clean. Too entirely beautiful. Glasses have the same curve. Glasses I can draw. But the glasses are gone. Only but the hair. Hair like fire.

To Whom It May Concern:

A smile, arcing eyebrows that epitomize my mood. Shooting up in but a second, as fast as a unconscious reaction. Smile. Smile. Wave, tilt head. Hair like fire. Smile, laugh, hey. Hey. Smile, I smile. You smile, I smile. Hair like fire, you smile, I smile. Upraised eyebrows, flutter of feeling. Hair like fire. Head tilt, smile, flutter of feeling. Pass by, lifting my mood. Every time, lifting my mood.

To Whom It May Concern:

Impressions. Things that make a mark on your mind. Not the actual image, not the actual form, but the feeling that image makes on your mind. Impressions don’t record ones and zeros. Impressions don’t record the data of a person. Impressions record the feeling of the person. Imprint or impression. Hair like fire, impression. Coffee brown eyes, not impression. Only but a poetic excuse, that’s all it is. I had to look that fact up as if it was the capital of Somalia. Hair like fire made an impression.

To Whom It May Concern:

Waiting. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. More, much more, than usual. Just goes to show how I’m just upside down. Hair like fire turns me upside down. Waiting, waiting eagerly, it’s tense. Take the tension and write with it. Hair like fire. Used to be a flutter of feeling, now it’s a entire flock flapping. Which makes the waiting worse. I love her hair. Smile, where was that smile? Smile, where is that smile? Hair like fire turns me upside down, but I like being upside down. I have to appreciate it, it’s a great thing. Kept me up all last night, the entire time. Too many chemicals. They’ve been stored up. Too long, too many. Rush rush rush rush rush. Waiting, thirty-three hours, four hours, half an hour. Not long, but it feels like forever. It usually isn’t a problem. Time is spent by me like money is spent by a drunken sailor. But now it is. Time is a problem, time is a dimension. Time is a flowing stream. But the stream goes too slow for me.

To Whom It May Concern:

Hair like fire. Smile. Flutter-crush.

To Whom It May Concern:

Sometimes logic makes its way into my thoughts. Sometimes it’s right. I believe it’s right. It shoots me. And for some reason, it feels like it’s never right. It keeps me hoping. Logic and feeling, always fighting. When they aren’t, it’s huge. But they are. The latest victory is believed and sets me up. Logic won latest, I doubt. Feeling won latest, I hope. The fight hurts me on both sides.

To Whom It May Concern:

More waiting. Can’t waste this time. Too much time to waste. Just have to live. And this time, it’s not destructive. It never quite reached dangerous. Very creative, but not dangerous.

To Whom It May Concern:

You are, you just don't know you are. You explain that it’s nothing but more trouble, but in reality, it can take away your trouble. You might be wary of what has happened before, but what happened before is only in the past. You are, you just don't know you are. Waiting, waiting, this has the same pattern. This has the same pattern. This curse of a pattern. Logic kills. Logic kills. Logic kills. But this time is logic, the last time wasn’t. Maybe there is no pattern after all. Just a coincidence. Hopefully. Logic kills. Logic breathes but logic kills. Logic has no place for friendships. But logic has to be balanced with feeling. Maybe logic can be defeated with hope. Hopefully it can.

To Whom It May Concern:

The field is leveled. It’s flat, without impressions. My feeling is a line, like the lost heartbeat. I’m not dead, but it sure feels like it. My emotions are like a turtle hiding in a shell. I get hurt, I withdraw. Then I feel nothing until I crawl out of my shell again. I miss both the good and the bad. Chicago. Back to Chicago, I thought then. I still agree with what I thought then. Chicago, I fell in love again, all things go. Songs seem to write my life. I let songs write my life. I wish songs wrote my life.

To Whom It May Concern:

Waiting, hiding in my turtle shell. I hope. I do not think. I feel. She's got hair like fire.