Je me souviens

You know, now that I think about it, my guess is that more than fifty percent of the posts on this blog could simply be copied and pasted onto my college apps as my personal statement.

I really am narcissistic.

Browsing through the old folders on my computer, I came across the short stories I wrote for the eighth grade end-of-the-year portfolio and the vignettes I wrote for the House on Mango Street project. Now that I've reread my old work, I realize my style was very much an imitation of Francesca Lia Block. They're not terrible, but I'm not particularly proud about them, because they're not very original.

For the vignette project, three vignettes were required: one about your name, one about a physical characteristic in your family, and one about your house. The one about my house is not very interesting, and I would rather not divulge my name here. Interestingly enough, the characteristic I chose to write about was voice. I really do have a strange fascination with voices; but then again, there's not much you can say about my family's eyes. Haha.

I'll put up the voice vignette for now. I realized I haven't written a vignette in awhile. I've got a new idea I want to try out... which I'll do as soon as I turn in my early action college app tonight. Hopefully.

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Voice

They look right through you, as if they can see right through your skin and see your bones. Sometimes, they don’t even need to look. Listen. They’ll know who you are.

You can go and thank your voice for that.

Dad’s is like March. Sometimes abrasive and cutting, so shut your eyes and brace the gale. But then, sometimes he’ll crack a joke, and then you exhale because you know that now it’s calm like spring inside his clockwork mindset. He’s funny like that.

Mom is the debater. Clear, annunciated, always the exact diction. Almost like those glaring jungle green signs that leer over the freeways, only her signpost warns “It’s My Way Or The Highway.” No one in the family wins an argument against her.

Brother’s mouth is too big for his head. Incessant chatter of random nothings; his mouth is merely the amplifier for the thoughts mucking about in his mind. Out it comes, in the juvenile little voice of his, chippering away until it is like the constant ticking of the clock you barely notice. But he’s the youngest; he doesn’t want to be ignored.

Who am I? Nobody knows; no one can see through me. They don’t hear my voice. I know when to shut up. Sometimes I shut up too often. Maybe you think you’ll see the little smile hiding on my lips. You’ll see the corners twitch in irritation. Maybe.

If I am silent.