exercise #1

And finally, I picked up a pencil. I lit a cigarette, I sat down at my desk, and I picked up my pencil. I hadn't written in years. I had no inspiration, really, just a nagging urge to write that's gotten harder to ignore over time. I had to see Rachel later. I didn't have time for writing. I had to do it right then, though, because if I didn't get it out of my system, I'd be thinking about it for the rest of the day. And today's supposed to be a good day. It's also the day, I'd tell myself, I would start writing again.

My cigarette was down to the butt a few minutes after I'd sat down. I didn't time this correctly. I should've lit it right before sitting. And damn, I didn't have an ash tray near me. I couldn't have ashes on my desk, that's criminal. I was a little panicked, but I snatched a tissue from the shelf, folded it, and pressed the smoking end of the filter into it. After a heroic venture to the trash can and a wipe-down of the desk (just in case), I sat down again. Even after all that excitement... no inspiration. I really had nothing to write about. I thought about the outing I was going to have later on with Rachel, and my mind wandered.

God, I love my sister to death, but I just know that this is going to be exhausting. I suppose I'm also excited because I hate it here, too. I fell in love with this apartment, but it's starting to feel like a prison. Why do I have to turn the lights on and off seven times whenever I enter or leave? 

I'll tell you this already: I didn't. And well, it was seven times because seven was my lucky number. And it wasn't Rachel I was dreading, it was the facade of a century that I had been keeping up for months. I had to pretend that there wasn't a cockroach screaming her name on the sidewalk or that if I looked up at her, I could just smile and talk. Because if I told her about the cockroaches, she'd look for them and she wouldn't find them. I kept on with this monologue of self-pity for a while until I inevitably got bored. I looked down at my pencil and empty journal. Okay, I thought, I'll doodle. There had been this face I couldn't shake from my subliminal. She's got a somewhat roundish face, framed by a brown shag that seems to go in every direction. But it's not "god-does-she-ever-shower?" messy, it's a calculated kind of messy that flows above her ears. A relatable, charming kind of messy. Her lips curl up slightly, they're just a little thick, and a deep red. The kind most wouldn't mind kissing. Lord knows I wouldn't have minded tasting marachino lips. And her nose somehow adds to the kindness of her demeanor. She's on the thin-ish, but she wears these big clothes like she's got something to hide. I knew she wouldn't keep secrets, though. Just by looking at her, you'd know she's an open book, so long as you cared to keep it in good condition and read it carefully. I had seen her a few times already. I know I'm in love with her. But I also couldn't look for her or talk to her that night because my sister would follow my eyes and look for her, too. And Rachel wouldn't find her.

I drew my girl in three profiles and admitted defeat to my relentless mind. My mind that goes anywhere but where it needs to be at that moment. That betrays me endlessly. I walked over to my mirror again. I mumbled and groaned, dragged myself to my closet. A part of me still perked up when I saw the neatness of it, and the other parts knew that if I really had control in this prison, there'd be some messiness. But no. This realization hit me and it hit me like a train. I was already in the mood for sulking, forgetting that today was supposed to be a good day. I found jeans and an old t-shirt that seemed alright for the occasion. I didn't really care, anyway. Not until I left the house later and felt like I looked like a drunken teenager. I said a quick prayer, Please let it be before 4:00, and turned my phone over. 3:30pm. I didn't have to leave for another thirty minutes. Okay, twenty-five minutes. 

I walked over to the mirror in the corner, locking eyes with my reflection. "Good days" just aren't in the cards for me. I backed over to my bed, still staring into the mirror, and laughed at the thought. My hands were busy picking at my inner elbows, but I hardly noticed. I didn't realize that my thoughts turned into spoken words until I said, "The people who say 'Today was a good day,' are lying, optimists, or Ice Cube." I started laughing harder. "That wasn't funny". I turned quiet again. I couldn't follow my thoughts anymore. They became hushed and more than one. And faster. I could only catch a few hurried phrases at a time. 

lmk if I should keep this going or finish it or if you have any suggestions as to how it should go. don't take this too seriously, I was messing around when I was writing it. 

this is writing prompt 1: write a story from the POV of someone with some kind of mental illness, but only mention it at the end of the story. if you try it, message me so I can read it!!

i still haven't mentioned the illness... maybe you could guess it?

:P