The stars high above
Watching with their cold gaze
Time passes by their faded eyes
Seeing all, seeing nothing
Watching with their cold gaze
The past crumbles
Seeing all, seeing nothing
So distant is their warmth
The past crumbles
Ancestral traditions forgotten
So distant is their warmth
So jaded their descendants
Ancestral traditions forgotten
The stars high above
So jaded their descendants
Time passes by their faded eyes
The other day I ran out of Post-it notes. To most people, being out of Post-its is not a matter to halt one’s everyday schedule. For me, it is a make or break situation. My life is organized by those garishly bright and multi-shaped pieces of paper with that odd adhesive that has just that right amount of stick. They remind me, tell me, keep my place, and generally make it so I can easily figure out where I am at.
So when I had finally used that last bright green one, I was shocked – I’ve never ran out of my main source of daily momentum. I tried regular notebook paper – I could never remember which book I had written in. I tried random paper scraps – that was a joke. They only got lost in the continuum of my life. My hand was the next obvious choice – I soon learned that there was only so much room on one’s two hands before you had to start washing off and writing again. I was beginning to worry that I was forgetting times, dates, and important subjects that were of high importance to me.
Between classes, one of my friends suggested that we go to Target so that she could get herself the supplies needed for the new semester and her ever-hectic life. I agreed on one condition: she gave me a moment to grab my wallet. Agreeing to my lowly request, we headed off to the epic story of greatness that is known as Target. Without warning, I veered off down the aisle to the office supplies.
There they were – all lined up and wonderful in their ridiculously hued way. Searching for the ones I use the most, I was side-tracked by the ones shaped like apples, trees, and butterflies. there were even initial ones – and yes, there was a C (much to my amazement, seeing has how typically there never is a C when ever I have come across anything with initials). But I’ve never been a fan of those types of Post-it notes; I am a traditionalist. I like the squares. Sometimes lined, always in the brightest colors I can stand, and never under-estimated.
Once back next to my desk, I put up the first brand-spanking-new Post-it and it read of a poem prompt: “ Smell of dieing Marigolds and telephone lines shimmering.”
