Last year, I read approximately seventy pages of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a book I could not comprehend to any degree, and that's because I wasn't thoughtful a year ago. In the book, the main character--whatever his name was--said that he felt infinite. I can't remember if he described to the anonymous recipient of his letters what feeling infinite actually meant, I don't even remember the context in which he said that he felt infinite, but that doesn't matter. The reader will immediately understand the feeling he's experiencing. Looking back, I feel embarrassed that I didn't appreciate the book, but no matter, I'm coming to understand now what I read then. The feel I'm experiencing now can only be described as infinite. Maybe it's because I just read the last entry of An Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, entitled "You," and it made me cry. Maybe it's because I've been up since approximately three-twenty this morning. maybe it's because I've been writing the same novel for almost a year. Maybe it's because I feel like I don't have a millisecond to recognize the fact that I'm having my very own "Purple Flower Moment." Maybe it's because it's exactly seven in the morning now, to the second, and I feel like the four hours I've been up reading and writing and thinking in silence meant something. Maybe because I am vaguely aware of the fact that the sun is rising outside; that my legs are sore from so much walking only ten hours ago through Old Town with Paul and Vikram; that I spent practically an entire evening thinking about the friendships I've gained and lost.
It looks like it's going to storm out. Maybe I should get some sleep.
Causes Shelby Brody Supports
Broadway Cares/Equity Fight AIDS