Gerard;
I can't help but to wonder what Frank's home life is like now. I wasn't even really aiming towards that with my questions. I was thinking maybe he had too much on his mind and would want to talk about it. Now I'm just asking myself what his home life could be made of to make him look like all the life got sucked out of him. I mean, does his parent, or parents..... Beat him? I don't want to take that into consideration because the thought of it just upsets and disturbs me. Why would a parent do that to their own child? Anyways, is Frank depressed? Is that what the angry front is for? To cover up his true sadness? Maybe it was just a long night? But what could've happened? Anything. Everything.
I feel terrible trying to figure out in the privacy of my own thoughts what someone else's life is like, but that's exactly how people are with me and what I write in my journal: we can't help it. It's human nature to want to know everything, everyone's business. I shake my head of my intrusive thoughts and look back down at my blank English assignment. Our assignment is to describe someone's emotional state with symbolic colors and turn it into a short story. I've been thinking about who to write mine on. I'm not going with the obvious option of myself. I don't have a specific emotional state, I'm just level headed. Then again, I'm sure that is an emotional state, just not as typical as angry, depressed, giddy.
So, clutching my pencil tighter, I write it on the one person who always haunts my mind, the one person who I so desperately want to find out. I know I don't know his exact emotional state, but I'm going to write what I think it is. What I picture his scenario is.
I'm going to definitely tweak a few things because, again, I don't know the exact details. I'm just positive of the colors I'm going to use and I have a scenario picked out, it's a depressing one, but in my mind, it's the perfect one.
I wake up every morning wanting to turn my outer self off and display who I really am, but that'd give everyone something to laugh about. I can't let myself turn into a joke, I've worked too hard to become a senseless joke. I roll put of my comfortable bed and land on my feet, walking towards my wardrobe which contains almost no variation. It's become a monotonous routine of waking up and hiding what is just begging to be shown; blue.
I slide a blue under shirt over my thin body and straighten it out to comfort, not wanting it to crease. Then, I grab a clean pair of pale blue boxers and trade them for the navy blue ones from the day before. After searching the rack for a darker shade, I grab the hanger containing a red that looks the shade of blood; crimson. It takes its place over the undershirt, covering up the blue, making it disappear under its overpowering shade. My jeans are nothing less than the intimidating shade I put on my upper half. They're skinny and fit my legs just right, blending with the sneakers I have added to my feet.
