The Big Bang

It really blows my mind the way scientists think that they have the answers to life. One such example would have to be the Big Bang theory. I have to admit, it's a pretty cool idea, but it just seems so. . . far out, you know? I mean, think about it. The whole universe began from one "Big Bang". Mind-boggling, isn't it? I know that the birth of my blog is absolutely minute to compare to this pinnacle of creation, but I have to start someplace.
So, this is my blog. Pretty spifilicious huh? (thanks Jory.) Well, I like it. I've been thinking about getting one of these blogs for awhile, thanks in part to Lauren, and most of the rest of the credit goes out to my passion for writing and my desperate need (and also my fellow writers' desperate needs) to have somewhere to post writing and get other opinions on the work that is produced here. So if anyone wants to post something on here, it's more than welcome. Kind of a writers' forum type of thing.
I guess I might throw in a few things about my life too, so here goes. My name's [Re]Becca Elise Garcia. As you may have gathered, one of the main aspects of my life is writing. Other hobbies include sketching, painting, tennis, reading, piano, talking (lol), and just chilling.
Here's the first post on this blog. And, also, the first writing. Check out a poem I wrote today.

Sketch
----//----

you are just a lonely stretch of canvas upon my easel,
undreamt, unthought,
unimagined. . . .
though carved into my memory it seems,
it is not.
your blue eyes are only a pigment
in the shadow of night
and your lips
flutter and allow air to seep through, breathing shallowly
in the hefty moment of dusk, your face
it still haunts my dreams. . . . . .
you don't exist to me,
you are unreal,
you are only something i have sketched in a book,
but that book has long since been closed.
you are tucked away,
hidden in the hills of my library
somewhere your blue eyes live yet,
but it is not in my heart,
for you are only a painting on my wall.
the brush had slipped jaggedly down your profile,
the forehead, the eyelids are drawn.
your nose juts out unnaturally,
and the effect is clear, as though the artist to which you owe your birth
although disturbed, sought peace still
and perhaps found it halfway down its canvas, because
the lips and chin
are astoundingly perfect,
flawless,
untouched by any degree of passion,
know not they that suffering exists?
ah, but whence suffering breathes,
compassion thrives,
and love dwells. . . .
my mind soars through imaginary moments,
each where those lips will be
or who will lift their smile beneath that perfect chin,
brush the coarse underwhiskers of that cleft
and still find it soothing. . .
as i snap back to reality i remember
that you are only a painting,
a pigment on a canvas,
a sketch upon the face of my heart;
and you hold the sole value of
representing that one out there
running beside the Vermillion River,
splashing in the cool creek,
climbing a tree long native to the farm,
staring lazily at the blue sky while sitting on the tractor,
pulling the covers up to that perfect chin while staring up at the stars,
dreaming of a girl that he had drawn on a paper.

----//----

RG


Hope you like it. Leave me comments!