Come on kids; let's all hold hands

The ferociously female - female, not girl or woman - she has never felt the true feminine characteristics that she so often has been told to feel, that would make her a girl or a woman, though she is undeniably female - adolescent sits outside - she calls it outside because it is not enclosed by four walls, but it is roofed and it is surrounded by columns large enough to appear as walls - of the place she refers to as home - is it really home? - to all that she knows how to do best.  I don't care if you're good, as long as you are good at it. She is smoking and she is drinking and she is listening to the sultry sounds of Ani Difranco. And what good - I say "good" here as if it means something - does this do her? She knows that she should be studying and reading and learning and feeling, but yet she hides in the corner of the world - the world is round and has no corners - refusing to do any of these things - things? - for none of these things do her any good either. Especially that one called "feeling."  

Yet as she sits in her corner - the corner in which she really feels at home - the corner that she would never call home - for who calls that which is considered outside "home"? - she waits for someone - anyone? - no, a certain someone that she has been waiting for for months now. So why does she pick this spot to wait - she could wait forever - when she could wait inside where it is warm or wait where she would be sure to be found? She doesn't know. Probably because it was in this spot that they first had a conversation; there was hookah smoke and cigarette smoke and cigar smoke and tobacco smoke and loud conversation and laughter and inappropriateness and hard-beating hearts. She longs for that day to arise again, for the sheets of pressed paper to be read aloud again and for her sense to be overwhelmed by every feeling, but mostly that feeling of love. And that is why she does not feel now. Not only is she waiting for that person but she also waiting for that feeling, and like she will give her time to no other, she will her feelings to no other. She is committed, faithful, dedicated, to something that is not there to hold her commitment, her faithfulness, her dedication. To replace her feelings, she has found hope.

Her words are poetic - her thoughts are poetic - but what can be poetic without feeling the poetry pulse through your veins and out of your fingertips as you type diligently on your silvery white laptop. What can there be but words, empty words?