Write365, day 1.

Sitting here in my emptied living room in the middle of the floor, I feel like a modern day Carrie Bradshaw sans cigarette and jaded relationship status. Last night was spent with many, many drinks, frequent laughs, and one recurring question: “How can we be better in 2015?”. Amid giggles and memories, we each constructed our lists of resolutions, typed and signed, to aim to fulfill during the upcoming year. Since this has become a refuge for everything I tend to withhold, my resolutions are as follows:

  1. Balance my work and personal life.
  2. stop dwelling on things longer than I should.
  3. Be more positive.
  4. Accept the things I cannot change and actively change what I can.
  5. Walk more.
  6. Be present in every moment.

In addition to these, I want to challenge myself to write more. Coincidentally, my best friend Ms. Bohemian gave me a wonderful book for Christmas full of writing prompts that can work to inspire greatness within myself as well as my students. Therefore, I challenge myself to write each and every day – a prompt a day for a year.

Write1: Write a story based on the title meaning of your favorite song.

It had been a long year. Under her foundation, the dark circles hold close to every late night spent worrying about tomorrow. Black lines the deep eyes that shed many a tear of happiness and of sorrow. Curls fall gently across her cheek as she adjusts her scarlet dress. The scent of peonies and jasmine consume the small powder room as she stares blankly at the mirror. The more she examined the face gazing back at her, the more she recalled its transformation: the hair color, the width of her smile, the light in her eyes. Long was the road that brought this woman to this night staring at her reflection in search of peace.

Somehow, behind the mask of lipgloss and hairspray, she’s still in there. That girl who loves her fuzzy boots and a ripped tee shirt, that “redneck” chick with her baseball cap. “Wavy locks..  bright eyes.. optimistic,” she thought as she fidgeted with her skirt, “..I want to be that again.” And then it hit her. No matter how many twists and tugs of the rouge ensemble, no matter how many fluffs of hair, this is her. The country girl. The vixen. The tattoo and the plunging neckline. Nothing left; nothing changed. It was all there staring back at her. Now more than ever she realized that the days of defining herself have since passed. She is what she chooses to be, and on this night, she desired to be great.

Good riddance.


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