A friend and I share a fascination with the dark alleyways and grimy corridors of adjacent large cities. I am reminded of the autobiographical account of her young life she shared with me when I shared with her my first pale attempts at fine literature. I am reminded because I would be using time more wisely in completing a paper on the safety on campus than coaxing these words back from last night's crash of this, and the previous, post.
Her account was but a few paragraphs and in a freer form than I work. I recall it being rich in sensory description and, at times, being self-cynical. The hardcopy, or e-mail (I don't remember which) is lost now. It would be nice to be able to reference it now. At the time I read it my medically-hindered comprehension skills required an explanation. There was a city train scene, where she seemed to feel she belonged, and a fruit plate convention at a cafe, where she seemed to not.
The sadder side of beauty is often only found in the observing participant. In conversation, the other party will try to direct sunlight in the form of, "You've come so far," on one's dark or prideless past. When the carefully constructed catharsis is written, the reader may not interrupt. The fact bleeds from the page that the writer's period of uncertainty wouldn't be traded for a body of the bluest blood.
The previous post is written imperitively to myself. I think it bears some similarity to my friend's autobiography in its flat truthfulness.
