BOREDOM TO POETRY
The state of boredom drove me to writing poetry. I don’t remember exactly when, but I know it was July of 2004. It was about a week after I moved to Connecticut from New York City. I thought it was the worst thing to ever happen to me; I had to leave all my friends. Worst of all, I was going into my senior year of high school, and I would be graduating with people I didn’t really know. I had to start all over at a new school, in a foreign state. The place was noticeably different. The days were nothing but absolute silence, and I could actually hear crickets at night. It wasn’t something with which I was familiar. I knew I would have a big problem adjusting to this new place. Living there was unquestionably dreadful; who would’ve thought that I would be pouring out poetry.
That summer afternoon that started it all was overwhelmingly torturous. There was no point trying to be productive because there was nothing to clean, nothing to read, and nothing interesting to watch. It was too hot to step out and staying in was getting much too tedious. The Internet wasn’t hooked up yet, and staring at the wall certainly wasn’t intriguing. I sat there thinking to myself, “is this real?” I took out a blank piece of paper from the printer and placed it in front of me on the computer desk. Since I had no clue why I did that, I just left it there. I folded my arms and tried to think of anything I could do to occupy my time, but my mind was completely blank. About three minutes later, my younger sister, furiously, hasted halfway down the stairs and threw a pen at me. Although it only tapped me lightly, I vigorously turned around angrily and groaned, “What…!” She yelled back, “that’s for calling me a cartoon freak earlier!” My whole agenda that day was to wake up and call my ten-year old sister. I thought about running after her all around the house to cause a tiny bit of interesting drama, but I knew that it would just get me sweaty, plus I had used all my energy on that Academy award winning turn.
After she went back upstairs, my eyes wandered around the room and set on the pen. I stared at it for about five minutes. I quickly grabbed it, on impulse, after I heard a loud noise from outside that snapped me back to reality. I pulled the cap off the pen slowly, and put the fine tip on the paper. I started to scribble and draw bubbles. For a minute there I thought I was going to self-destruct from boredom; I mean I actually started to write down words, though I didn’t have to. I wrote down every word that came to my mind. After a few lines, I stopped and read what I had; it made absolutely no sense to me. My mind was blank for about five seconds. All of a sudden, words started dashing out. I couldn’t grasp all of them; I caught just about every other word. I filled in the rest to finish it. It came to a total of about six lines. The feeling was completely random, but it was distrust. I couldn’t find the roots of these feelings at first, but then I saw my mother’s face, and all the lines started to recite in my mind. I was feeling guilty. It was as if my self-conscious was finally holding me accountable for breaking curfew and loosing my mom’s trust because of it.
What the hell is this? I hate it, You look at me as if you don't trust me, And all you do is doubt me, There's really nothing I can do about it, Because if that's the way you feel, then what it is, is what it is
I didn’t know I had cared at all about that incident, but it turned out that it hurt me more than I thought. I turned the paper over and started again. This time I put effort, and concentrated; it was personal. I started missing an old friend back in New York. I felt like I was talking directly to him, but when it was completed, it was pure poetry. I couldn’t believe what I was reading, “…I feel like a twelve-year old girl with a crush on a high school senior, and the only thing that makes my day is seeing ya, I feel like a head cheerleader longing for her star quarterback, cause when I reminisce, I just remember exactly what it is that I lack…” I couldn’t believe that I, Jules O., wrote those words. The words were so deep
and mature. I’m not one to put my feelings down on paper, but when I did, it felt like I had been doing it my whole life. It felt like something I was supposed to do; I felt like a natural. I never thought I had a talent like most people had. When I finished that poem, I felt this sense of accomplishment; I was overly proud of myself. I had never done anything so fulfilling in my life. It took a lot of thought but at the same time it was a simple process for me.
Afterwards, I felt so confused, was this just a one-time thing, or was it something that was going to keep going? Less than twenty-four hours later, I had finished a second poem. I just woke up and picked up the closest book and pen to me and started flowing. I completed my third one the day after the second. That one grew close to my heart. After that third poem, I knew I wanted to continue.
As a teenager, I was an extreme introvert. When I had problem, I usually kept it to my self and exude a nonchalant facade. Until I started writing, everything was perfectly bottled up. I did not know how to express myself or my feelings. Writing has helped me face and conquer a lot of my issues. Poetry isn’t something that should be taken for granted. In fact I think it needs to be appreciated more. Sharing your inner, most private thoughts and feelings is not easy, and I commend those who do it, and now, myself. My passion for it may not be strong as the many developed writers out there, but I hope it gets there someday. So, here I go…
Happy Writing!
julesreveals 