U2girl91289
War Child
I wrote this about 2 weeks ago, a few days after returning from Russia. Any comments, criticisms or corrections are welcome.
Ballet, the first class in over a week. Doesn't seem like a lot, but it is, especially after eating pork and potatoes and bread every day for a week.
And I'm so incredibly focused that I don't know if I'm truly focused, or if the movements are so ingrained in my body after a lifetime of hopeful, dream-smothered practice practice that my mind can stop working, and go back to Russia. and fatigue sets in, fatigue of 2 AP course tests, an AP essay and a quiz and school and ballet all in one day hits me, crashing like the water-tower that was pulled down today and I know that I am fortunate and pampered beyond most of the world's comprehension.
And realization follows, blankets my tiredness, realization that I have been to Russia, the former nemesis of all that was good, but the beacon of democracy is looked down upon, all because of a bumbling moron who has no idea about anything, who doesn't even read the newspaper, and russia has decayed, is ignored by the world, except for momentary sympathy for the 300 murdered children, and I don't understand how millions of poor people were ever a threat to our so-called democracy.
And in doing turns, the spot on the mirror is the top dome of the Church of Spilled Blood, or Peter and Paul, or St. Isaac, as I am pulled into a golden-spired bliss, as my body begins to slow down.
And in the shower, dropping soap, tangling my hair, not caring that tomorrow is picture day, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da runs through the congested mass of my brain, like the traffic on Vasilevsky Island, junky Ladas driving on sidewalks, shaking with the effort, to get ahead, nothing to control them.
Oh, how life goes on.
But I don't want to go on, I want to return to Saint Petersburg, and swim in the cascading fountains of Peterhof, not caring how many tour groups go past as they learn about Russia's gilded and nationalized past, moved but knowing they won't do anything about it. That Russia will become just pictures and a story to tell the family, knowing that I don't want to be one of them.
And I want to live backstage at the Maryinski, and repaint, rebuild the crumbling Soviet apartment buildings one by one.
And I want to forget my priorities, the History outline still incomplete, tests not studied for, piano not practiced, the guitar that hasn't been tuned in I can't even remember how long, but I can't, because everything counts this year. This year, Junior Year, I'm only 15, how much harder will it get? How much easier could it be?
And I know that I have it easy, that I am spoiled, that I won't do anything about it even though I feel bad.
And while I wonder about his intentions at giving me the CD, the reasoning behind her copmliment, as people sit, looking out the window to hope, only remembering a winter where 5 out of 6 people died, and trying to remember the freedom, the happiness, that never existed and I realize that I have everything, photographs, memories, everything.
Ballet, the first class in over a week. Doesn't seem like a lot, but it is, especially after eating pork and potatoes and bread every day for a week.
And I'm so incredibly focused that I don't know if I'm truly focused, or if the movements are so ingrained in my body after a lifetime of hopeful, dream-smothered practice practice that my mind can stop working, and go back to Russia. and fatigue sets in, fatigue of 2 AP course tests, an AP essay and a quiz and school and ballet all in one day hits me, crashing like the water-tower that was pulled down today and I know that I am fortunate and pampered beyond most of the world's comprehension.
And realization follows, blankets my tiredness, realization that I have been to Russia, the former nemesis of all that was good, but the beacon of democracy is looked down upon, all because of a bumbling moron who has no idea about anything, who doesn't even read the newspaper, and russia has decayed, is ignored by the world, except for momentary sympathy for the 300 murdered children, and I don't understand how millions of poor people were ever a threat to our so-called democracy.
And in doing turns, the spot on the mirror is the top dome of the Church of Spilled Blood, or Peter and Paul, or St. Isaac, as I am pulled into a golden-spired bliss, as my body begins to slow down.
And in the shower, dropping soap, tangling my hair, not caring that tomorrow is picture day, Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da runs through the congested mass of my brain, like the traffic on Vasilevsky Island, junky Ladas driving on sidewalks, shaking with the effort, to get ahead, nothing to control them.
Oh, how life goes on.
But I don't want to go on, I want to return to Saint Petersburg, and swim in the cascading fountains of Peterhof, not caring how many tour groups go past as they learn about Russia's gilded and nationalized past, moved but knowing they won't do anything about it. That Russia will become just pictures and a story to tell the family, knowing that I don't want to be one of them.
And I want to live backstage at the Maryinski, and repaint, rebuild the crumbling Soviet apartment buildings one by one.
And I want to forget my priorities, the History outline still incomplete, tests not studied for, piano not practiced, the guitar that hasn't been tuned in I can't even remember how long, but I can't, because everything counts this year. This year, Junior Year, I'm only 15, how much harder will it get? How much easier could it be?
And I know that I have it easy, that I am spoiled, that I won't do anything about it even though I feel bad.
And while I wonder about his intentions at giving me the CD, the reasoning behind her copmliment, as people sit, looking out the window to hope, only remembering a winter where 5 out of 6 people died, and trying to remember the freedom, the happiness, that never existed and I realize that I have everything, photographs, memories, everything.
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