Morgan
.1
The moment I awake, I have this feeling, deep in my gut, telling me that today will be a good day. I must dress to the part; tratigicaly hideous, yet somehow sexy. I belive that’s the best descripiton one can give of my style, today. And each day differs. Today, I wear a to-large pair of men’s overalls, white, with a black cami underneath, and a black hoodie. Some days, I preteend I’m from 1876, in a long black skirt, white frilly blouse, white overskirt, and some pretecious hair-do. Some days, I play 20’s flapper, in black and white, with red fishnets over black tights, and pumps, with show-girl feathers exploding from my head. Some days, I masquerade as a current hipster; perfectly in costume with the latest trends, each individualized. Some days, my favorite, I’m a hippie, in a dirt-grazing white ghost skirt, and some hippie top, bear-foot, the hard soles of my feet at home against the burning pavement or stabbing woodchips. Today, I’m not sure what I am, I just know it works all right.
Not long through second period, my hunch begins to fullfill it’s self, as Caden shows up, plopping his lanky body down infront of mine, on the cushion on the library floor. We both know he should be in class; we both know he won’t be convinced to attend. We also both know that, at somepoint in this day, he will kiss me. No, Caden is not my boyfriend. No, I don’t wish him to be. We’re content confusing our friend when they belive us together. My ‘twin,’ April, tells me that we’ll be together forever, though never truly together. She says we’ll make-out till our friends think we’re pulling their strings, and dub us a couple. She says we’ll live together in college, and after. She says we’ll have kids together, raise them together, die together, yet never date. I don’t doubt her.
It’s about four in the afternood when I get off the ratty, patched-up couch, leaving Caden behind, grab my canvas backpack, and stride out of the library. I hear his voice, filled with confusion and uncertinty, calling me back to his lap. And I know, as much as I’d like to let him seduce me back into his arms, I can’t. I’m not angry at him, not upset with anyone. I don’t want to leave, but it’s time. Sometime in everyone’s life, you get that feeling where you have to leave, and never look back. Most people ignore it. Then, again, most people hate their lives. Besides, I never was one to do things normaly. As I turn the keys in my ignition, I know I’m not going home. I have no idea where I will go, but I’m gonna take a break. My phone is in my hand, my computer in my backpack, and I have blankets in the back of my car. I’ve got a guitar, and ten dollars in my bra, and I’m not comeing back anytime soon.
Caden is standing at the library door when I pull out, looking hurt, confused, and pissed. It’s not something I didn’t expect. My actions are the unexpectd here, and with ever passing moment I feel more shocked with my sudden gall. I don’t blame him, I’d be pissed at myself, too, and I almost am.
My hands seem to have a mind of their own, guideing the rough steering wheel in circles, taking my car down roads I’ve never seen before. I have no goal, no destination. I know there’s so little of this world I’ve actuly ever seen. It’s time I meet some famous people, time I dance in corn fields at midnight. It’s time I learn what it’s like to wake in the back of the car, or on a street corner.
As my feet and hands drive, my eyes take in the road in front, the cows on either side, the childern in the small towns. Sometimes, I stop, let my legs unfold themselves, breath in the air, littered with flower pollen and reeking of fall. Sometimes I park my car, play on swingsets, singing to myself as I preteend to fly. Sometimes I stop in citys, scribble down the streets where I park on the back of my hands, find downtown, bum money off people, money for gas. My food consites of stolen apples of trees, of a box of crackers I found in the trunk, of canned beans. One night, in extreem heat, I slept on the roof of my car. One morning, I sat in a coffee house before the sun rose, stiring sugar into fresh tea, sitting at a table alone, taking advantage of free wifi.
Caden emails me daily, after the initial fifty-seven calls. Each time, I send a post card with answers to everything he wants to know. He tried to find me once, using the adress, before relizing I move every day. Constantly he asks if it’s his fault. Every day, I tell him I just couldn’t stand New Jersey any more; I was sick of the east coast. Now, it seems I’m meandering towards California. I’ve always wanted to see L.A., San Fransisco, Yosmite. Last night, I slept in a field. Today, I’m going to a Renissance Faire, dressing in clothes I found at some thrift store. I know in a few months, I’ll settle down somewhere. I’ll finish senior year, go to college, get a job in fashion; maybe a stylist or designer.
For now, though, I’m finding myself. I’ve always been Morgan, free spirit. I’ve always been Morgan, good student. I’ve always been Morgan, bi-polar schitzo. I’ve always been Morgan, Caden’s girl. I’ve always been Morgan, the best friend anybody could ask for. What if I’m not all those things? What if just Morgan?
Not long through second period, my hunch begins to fullfill it’s self, as Caden shows up, plopping his lanky body down infront of mine, on the cushion on the library floor. We both know he should be in class; we both know he won’t be convinced to attend. We also both know that, at somepoint in this day, he will kiss me. No, Caden is not my boyfriend. No, I don’t wish him to be. We’re content confusing our friend when they belive us together. My ‘twin,’ April, tells me that we’ll be together forever, though never truly together. She says we’ll make-out till our friends think we’re pulling their strings, and dub us a couple. She says we’ll live together in college, and after. She says we’ll have kids together, raise them together, die together, yet never date. I don’t doubt her.
It’s about four in the afternood when I get off the ratty, patched-up couch, leaving Caden behind, grab my canvas backpack, and stride out of the library. I hear his voice, filled with confusion and uncertinty, calling me back to his lap. And I know, as much as I’d like to let him seduce me back into his arms, I can’t. I’m not angry at him, not upset with anyone. I don’t want to leave, but it’s time. Sometime in everyone’s life, you get that feeling where you have to leave, and never look back. Most people ignore it. Then, again, most people hate their lives. Besides, I never was one to do things normaly. As I turn the keys in my ignition, I know I’m not going home. I have no idea where I will go, but I’m gonna take a break. My phone is in my hand, my computer in my backpack, and I have blankets in the back of my car. I’ve got a guitar, and ten dollars in my bra, and I’m not comeing back anytime soon.
Caden is standing at the library door when I pull out, looking hurt, confused, and pissed. It’s not something I didn’t expect. My actions are the unexpectd here, and with ever passing moment I feel more shocked with my sudden gall. I don’t blame him, I’d be pissed at myself, too, and I almost am.
My hands seem to have a mind of their own, guideing the rough steering wheel in circles, taking my car down roads I’ve never seen before. I have no goal, no destination. I know there’s so little of this world I’ve actuly ever seen. It’s time I meet some famous people, time I dance in corn fields at midnight. It’s time I learn what it’s like to wake in the back of the car, or on a street corner.
As my feet and hands drive, my eyes take in the road in front, the cows on either side, the childern in the small towns. Sometimes, I stop, let my legs unfold themselves, breath in the air, littered with flower pollen and reeking of fall. Sometimes I park my car, play on swingsets, singing to myself as I preteend to fly. Sometimes I stop in citys, scribble down the streets where I park on the back of my hands, find downtown, bum money off people, money for gas. My food consites of stolen apples of trees, of a box of crackers I found in the trunk, of canned beans. One night, in extreem heat, I slept on the roof of my car. One morning, I sat in a coffee house before the sun rose, stiring sugar into fresh tea, sitting at a table alone, taking advantage of free wifi.
Caden emails me daily, after the initial fifty-seven calls. Each time, I send a post card with answers to everything he wants to know. He tried to find me once, using the adress, before relizing I move every day. Constantly he asks if it’s his fault. Every day, I tell him I just couldn’t stand New Jersey any more; I was sick of the east coast. Now, it seems I’m meandering towards California. I’ve always wanted to see L.A., San Fransisco, Yosmite. Last night, I slept in a field. Today, I’m going to a Renissance Faire, dressing in clothes I found at some thrift store. I know in a few months, I’ll settle down somewhere. I’ll finish senior year, go to college, get a job in fashion; maybe a stylist or designer.
For now, though, I’m finding myself. I’ve always been Morgan, free spirit. I’ve always been Morgan, good student. I’ve always been Morgan, bi-polar schitzo. I’ve always been Morgan, Caden’s girl. I’ve always been Morgan, the best friend anybody could ask for. What if I’m not all those things? What if just Morgan?
♠ ♠ ♠
well, if you tell me, i'm more likely to continue it, but i'm not sure.