Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Never did I notice until my poetry teacher said it- my life consists of inconsistencies, instability, unlikeliness. It was obvious in my writing. The things that weren't supposed to happen, the places I wouldn't see, I wouldn't live in, and the people I shouldn't have met or fell in love with are the frays of my everyday conscience and the memories revisited, avoided. Improbability is commonplace but not precisely predictable, like expecting warm weather in spring but it reaching 80 degrees. Most people chock it up to the adage "That's life!" Yet I guess I'm too secretive for them to get the full picture. Or am I ashamed to not have had a normal circumstance since the day I was born, hurting my mother to get out 2 months early?