the girl who couldn't sleep
I can hear my mother breathing in the next room, alseep on the big floral couch.
I can smell the lotion on my skin, and feel my body, tired yet strong, soft yet solid.
I can see heavy scrapes on my knuckles. They are pleasant reminders of my struggle to push myself up a wall while rock climbing this week. I was weaker than most, but I came out feeling so strong.
Above my computer is my bulletin board; I see photographs of myself, a photo I took for the school paper, a pamphlet for a Pilates studio that turned down my exhibit, and the number of a waitress who came over for several strong vodkas and good conversation the night before.
On my desk is a punk rock CD from the pizza chef at work, a philosophy text book, airplane tickets, a book on fashion and my sketchbook.
There are times where I see my identity strewn all around me and it fills me with warmth.
This is who I am, and I like and accept all of it.
I am not perfect. Failure shakes my hand every day, and I grip it firmly before moving on.
It's late at night and the winds are howling outside. The lace curtain on my window dances a little with each gust.
The corner of my purple comforter is turned over, asking me to crawl in, and I think I'll accept its invitation.
photo by Maja Hajduk
I can smell the lotion on my skin, and feel my body, tired yet strong, soft yet solid.
I can see heavy scrapes on my knuckles. They are pleasant reminders of my struggle to push myself up a wall while rock climbing this week. I was weaker than most, but I came out feeling so strong.
Above my computer is my bulletin board; I see photographs of myself, a photo I took for the school paper, a pamphlet for a Pilates studio that turned down my exhibit, and the number of a waitress who came over for several strong vodkas and good conversation the night before.
On my desk is a punk rock CD from the pizza chef at work, a philosophy text book, airplane tickets, a book on fashion and my sketchbook.
There are times where I see my identity strewn all around me and it fills me with warmth.
This is who I am, and I like and accept all of it.
I am not perfect. Failure shakes my hand every day, and I grip it firmly before moving on.
It's late at night and the winds are howling outside. The lace curtain on my window dances a little with each gust.
The corner of my purple comforter is turned over, asking me to crawl in, and I think I'll accept its invitation.
photo by Maja Hajduk
posted by Gillian Young at 10:25 PM
6 Comments:
Its cold in Canada. I enjoy your blog. Makes me feel warm in Ohio.
Beautiful photo.
oui... la photo est très belle... et il y a un petit air de "la jeune fille à la perle"...
Great Pic!
Also, sorry you didn't get the photo editor position!
Like a good short story or a fine piece of descriptive writing, edit the obvious and the reality is even more delicious. Mask all from the clip of the chin, the tail end strands of hair and the top of the bow and the well turned shoulder in subtle light allows for all to know how the happy ending will be. Kudos to Maja.
bill- Thank you, it's getting colder and colder over here!
josh- I wish I could take credit, but yes, Maja did a great job.
david- quelqu'un d'autre m'a dit la meme chose! Mais la jeune fille a la perle moderne!
goodnews- thank you, there's always next year!
sie lancebeaucoup- The photo posted is the unedited version she sent me before touching it up, but I agree.
Ari- I wish you could come over to share a botte of wine with me and talk, I miss you too, we shoud plan something in the new year.
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