I Like

The light breeze stirs my hair, the ends of the wispy strands lightly probing my face like the feelers of a hundred curious insects. I put down my book. It’s too hot out for Faulkner today; the weight of his words combined with the weight of the heat makes me tired. The brightness is too intense for such dark philosophies of the world, though I must admit I believe them even when the sun is shining. Still, just because something is true does not mean one must be constantly aware of it, right? Some things should be forgotten if they cannot be immediately resolved.
But then I suppose there are times when something must be thought about constantly until a resolution occurs. They might as well all be those times, though, because I can’t seem to stop thinking about anything that could be perceived as a problem.

Happythoughts. I try to have happythoughts.

I like it when I paint or draw all day, without realizing the day has passed. Upstairs as natural light fades to lamplight, my skin being continually smudged by acrylics or watercolors or charcoal.

I like it when I finish something.

I like to hear small things and listen to the silence around the sound, the big soft blank that is the vessel for the floating bits of audio.

I like octopi. I really do; they are adorable and amazing creatures.

I like things I should probably have grown out of by now; things like glitter nail polish, stuffed animals and rainbow things. They are in my Secret Stash of Things I Like, though, things I don’t generally like to admit. They keep company with Lady Gaga and Bud Light and getting pretty new things. Don’t tell anyone I told you that, though; it'll be Our Little Secret.

I like art. I aspire to be an artist one day, and enjoy most things that could be put in the category of “art”. Artists can be a lot of things. Artists can be flaky, artists can be mentally and emotionally troubled, artists can blur lines others might not—in life and on paper. My brother aspires to be a lawyer, and is well on his way. He tends to enjoy things of a more political or scientific nature, and I tend to enjoy things of edgy creativity in the arts. However, art and science often overlap, I’ve realized, as do my interests and my brother’s. We both enjoy music, and the making of it; we both feel a need for facts and logic in order to be persuaded of anything. However, he is a serene pool of rational waters, rippling occasionally, splashing briefly at the deliberate throw of a stone, while I am an icy river: a crust of cold, hard logic, with sensitivities and emotions and romance rushing wildly—dangerously—right beneath. The river leaks through the inevitable cracks in the crust, and if the crust is broken the flood will come rushing forth, refusing to be contained. But always, always the crust of rationalism seeks to contain the use of emotions as motive.

I like reading and writing; I like poetry and ceremonies.

I like new pens, sharp shadows, and textures. But not all textures; some make my skin crawl for no particular reason.

I like love stories, though I generally don’t believe them. At least not as commonplace. Logically it is just not likely that most people will experience an absolutely wonderful one, no matter what all the romantic comedies say. Though I do enjoy those with a bowl of ice cream on an exasperated evening.

And I like William Faulkner, even on hot days.