I.
The air conditioning blew my hair every which way. The boy who resembled a man stacked the boxes high. Boxes stacked as tall as the sky, never ending reminiscent of earth. The phones were ringing hysterically suggestive like his feelings. I typed slowly in order to achieve precision as I worked. Today I could not prevent the consciousness of eyes. It is five in the evening slowing time at our place of employment. The slowness as the sun crept down began to draw the patrons in.
II.
Then, the young beaten down by the eyes that hunt her stops in her tracks, tells the boy reminiscent of a man: “I will not let you burn a whole in me, your twenty years old and evocatively a boy at heart. I will not fret at the thought of your ogle within my soul. That’s it!” The boy reminiscent of a man is not dim. He ogles with care, careful not to be caught. He replies: “Why must I stop realizing splendor?”
The lady speaks next. There is deep sensation within my soul.
III.
I feel comfort in awkwardness. I feel comfort in the boy reminiscent of a man. He speaks slowly with care and calm. I type one letter at a time, only to have a page that makes not sense. My friend once told me to feel the stares of a man is to feel comfort in the soul. I soon appreciate the boy reminiscent of a man is actually the man reminiscent of me.
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About Me
- MerCedes
- Buckeye, Arizona, United States
- Four years ago I was asked to write an all about me, I was sixteen years old and thought of my life as a blank canvas. I believed I had deep thoughts and dreamed beyond the horizon, I jump through hoops, ran past dreams, into the arms of me. I depended on air to help me breathe, while I trusted in god to provide that air for me. You tell me I can’t and I show you I can. That’s me, defiant of all odds in the pursuit of greatness. So far I have become the young woman I dreamt of being, only with life’s hardships and too many sufferings that followed me. I always find it interesting how people want you to some up your life in a page or two, when you’ve lived twenty pages; I guess nothing is fully inclusive. My father says that he has forgotten more now than I could know at my age, I presume that’s the point, to write an about me is suppose to be the great highlights of your life, from the many people you’ve known, loved and befriended. I love to think of my life as a blank canvas, a work of art never to finished, always willing, and able to add more. I feel comfortable ending this about me as the last, all about me is a canvas I'll spend a lifetime painting creating and contemplating.
Wow, I commend you for taking on this story. As I was reading the one from the book, I did not understand it and was clueless as how to imitate it. You are undoubtedly brave for chosing this story and writing style to imitate! I think you did a good job at clearing up the concept of said format and helping me to understand it better; so thank you! Great post!
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