The library. My current disposition is placidly grateful to have a matter of choice over my own disposition. I chose this spot, to stand purposfully. I came here to write, to be inspired. Upon observation of my immediate surroundings, I see a woman. This is her.
That woman.
She sits in a seemingly comfortable chair padded with leather on a wooden frame. Her black converse and rolled up jeans cover her propped feet as she slouches comfortably with a mannerism characterization showing timid and reserved. Her arms are crossed, eyes closed, and head heavy as it sways from side to side as she tries to find a place of rest in her mind. She fights her will to live and sleep and read all simultaneously. Her glasses are still on, but they can't help her see her dreams more clearly. Her arms are crossed just above her magazine that she must have propped up against her legs as a decoy. Her bag sits beside her, vulnerable. Her eyes I'm sure tell a story, one that I cannot read for her eyelids have blocked my means of interpretation. Her hair is short, the story this tells is left up to my imagination, and now yours.
She proceeds to adjust to an erect position as she straightens her legs over the table, uncoils her spine to sit flush with the chair, fiddles with her clothing, and focuses her eyes once again on her magazine after her eyelids decide to peel back, probably unwillingly. A new prop has been uncovered with the release of her outstretched legs: her cellular phone. It was hidden when her knees pointed to the ceiling, now obvious and resting face down above her crotch. She wipes the sleep from her eyes, but cannot avoid the crossing of her arms. Her head is bowed, not in a way of shame, but in a way to steer clear of the world. She squints and blinks her eyes as she covers her cheek and then graciously slides her fingers to her neck as if to seem bored or uninterested in what she is doing. She checks her phone, to take a break I presume, and once again props her knees high, and crosses her arms like she's the only one who knows how.
Whether she sits aimlessly or with proper intention, she sits. She thinks. Nobody but her can ever know her thoughts. However, all of us that have the pleasure of her presence, allbeit brief or extended, can know her actions. She sneezes. You sneeze too. I sneeze. We all can relate to accounts of one another. We are all the same. She is me is you. She will stay, read, sleep, know, think, and act as she pleases, or as she is told. We all are conscious beings. She is a treasure and a means of my inspiration. She will never know, and you can never know her, but only through my words. You can only know her through knowing yourself.
That woman.
She sits in a seemingly comfortable chair padded with leather on a wooden frame. Her black converse and rolled up jeans cover her propped feet as she slouches comfortably with a mannerism characterization showing timid and reserved. Her arms are crossed, eyes closed, and head heavy as it sways from side to side as she tries to find a place of rest in her mind. She fights her will to live and sleep and read all simultaneously. Her glasses are still on, but they can't help her see her dreams more clearly. Her arms are crossed just above her magazine that she must have propped up against her legs as a decoy. Her bag sits beside her, vulnerable. Her eyes I'm sure tell a story, one that I cannot read for her eyelids have blocked my means of interpretation. Her hair is short, the story this tells is left up to my imagination, and now yours.
She proceeds to adjust to an erect position as she straightens her legs over the table, uncoils her spine to sit flush with the chair, fiddles with her clothing, and focuses her eyes once again on her magazine after her eyelids decide to peel back, probably unwillingly. A new prop has been uncovered with the release of her outstretched legs: her cellular phone. It was hidden when her knees pointed to the ceiling, now obvious and resting face down above her crotch. She wipes the sleep from her eyes, but cannot avoid the crossing of her arms. Her head is bowed, not in a way of shame, but in a way to steer clear of the world. She squints and blinks her eyes as she covers her cheek and then graciously slides her fingers to her neck as if to seem bored or uninterested in what she is doing. She checks her phone, to take a break I presume, and once again props her knees high, and crosses her arms like she's the only one who knows how.
Whether she sits aimlessly or with proper intention, she sits. She thinks. Nobody but her can ever know her thoughts. However, all of us that have the pleasure of her presence, allbeit brief or extended, can know her actions. She sneezes. You sneeze too. I sneeze. We all can relate to accounts of one another. We are all the same. She is me is you. She will stay, read, sleep, know, think, and act as she pleases, or as she is told. We all are conscious beings. She is a treasure and a means of my inspiration. She will never know, and you can never know her, but only through my words. You can only know her through knowing yourself.