In a previous post, I mentioned having a hard time finding my "voice" in my writing. Now that college app season is over (YYYYEEESSSSSSSDjflakjf;aldsjf;lskfj239489304tiojfi;elfjw!1111!!!!!!!), it's back to academic writing for now.
Well, it seems I've hit yet another bump in the road with my writing. The other day, I was asked to write a response to a short story and I had no idea what to write. I didn't feel anything. In my college essays, I was able to write what I think, but I forgot what it was like to write what I feel.
Once again, I tried digging up a previous assignment for some inspiration.
Success!
I wrote this little thing for my African American lit class (random, I know). The assignment was to respond to a Langston Hughes poem. I remember writing it and pouring myself onto the page. I wrote about something so ridiculous and not really all that serious, but I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Anyways, here it is. This is me...feeling.
“Spring For Lovers”
Desire weaves its fantasy of dreams,
And all the world becomes a garden close
In which we wander, you and I together,
Believing in the symbol of the rose,
Believing only in the heart’s bright flower—
Forgetting—flowers whither in an hour.
Recently, the bug that is innocent, young love has bitten me, and hard. I have developed an unexpected crush on a boy, but our complicated situation makes it difficult for the relationship to become anything but a crush. Only the cruel nature of love could create a situation as sweet but utterly infuriating as ours.
So, this boy and I have an interesting relationship in that it lasts only twenty minutes at a time, three times a week. Although it seems short, I don’t think my heart could take a second more. After class, he goes out of his way to escort me to my next destination, whether it is next door or across campus. We trade small talk for a minute or two, asking of plans for the weekend or an interest of the day. We intend to chat for only a minute more, but twenty minutes effortlessly passes as we venture deeper into conversation, exploring each other’s likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams. Only occasionally do our eyes meet seeing that the intensity of my admiration advises me to keep from getting lost in his gaze for fear of never returning to reality. In normal circumstances, I generally find myself to be fairly eloquent and hardly soft-spoken, but in his presence, my search for vocal perfection only results in stuttering confusion, or, as I like to call it, word vomit. After I am finished making a fool of myself and other engagements demand our time, we part ways in a simple, but sweet “See you later.” A twenty-minute date, three times a week.
As I scanned Langston Hughes’ collection of poems, I came across “Spring for Lovers” and saw myself on the page. As a poetry fanatic, it is only natural that I am a hopeless romantic. Hughes managed to capture the very essence of my vexation so closely that I was almost embarrassed, as if he was mocking me, personally. I often find myself smiling like a fool as my mind and “desire weaves its fantasy of dreams,” of imperishable happiness and satisfaction. The trail from one classroom to another becomes our garden of serenity where we may travel together, only fueling the emotion.
But, despite the title of the poem, spring means the end of love. Our only connection is in our short strolls, therefore making the end of the quarter the abrupt, and heart-wrenching halt to our twelve weeks of fantasy. This boy’s only apparent flaw, so far, is that he is too much of a chicken sh*t to make a move (pardon the language, it’s the frustration of love). If one were to observe our banter and undeniable chemistry, it is obvious that there is something between us worth exploring, but his coy nature always gets the best of him. Hughes explains that in the midst of love, one may be caught up in “the symbol of the rose…/Forgetting—flowers whither in an hour.” Our time together is ticking because the relationship has been left unattended, only hoping for the best. A freshly cut flower will only whither so quickly if left without attention and care. In our relationship, inaction will only leave one (me) fragmented and depressed.
Langston, you got me. This poem has spelled out the destiny for this relationship if this shyness continues. I could heed this as a warning if I let the opportunity pass or I could accept the fact that some love is temporary and may diminish even before it has begun. Either way, Hughes’ literary genius will forever illustrate the frustration, ambiguity, and bliss of the twenty-minute dates that made the other twenty-three hours and forty minutes worth living.
