The Things I Carry

For my Challenge Lit and Comp II class, we are reading a novel called "The Things They Carried". An excersize we were told to do was write a poem about the things WE carried into the classroom, and what is says about ourselves. Somethings physical, and some mental. (attainable, and not attainable.) I was really inspired by this excersize because somehow what a person carries on themselves says alot about their charachter. Since then, I have been watching what people carry, with what they look like and how they act physically. Some people I somewhat know, and some I have just seen in public. Then, I start making stories about them in my head, about their past lives, love interests, personal habbits and hobbies. What they ate for dinner, or if I was eating at the saw time they were, WHY they picked what they did. Also silly things, like if they were stuck in a clssroom, what they would doodle in teir notebook, what they daydream about, or what kind of pets they have. ect. I know this sounds really weird, but its sort of fun when you have nothing else to do with yourself. I loved the excersize once I got started, so I thought I would share what I wrote.

I carry depicting colors of emotions, most not my true feelings. This shade I put over myself like a cloak; whatever pigment can help me blend in with the crowd, making it easier for everyone else not to notice me.
I carry the excessive hunger, want, desperation, a stretch for that dying feeling of loosing myself on stage. Just one moment, where I can loose everything, forget everything, be who I WANT to be, not who I am. An instant where my body puts itself into a mode that leaks out every single one of my barricaded feelings.
I carry my shoes, pieces of fabric sewn together to restrain my feet from being free. The same worn sneakers I’ve been wearing for years. Its’ an unchanged story of a gray shoe with two laces, worn soul, and missing lining. This pair has see the best of my days, the worst of melt downs, the most grueling workouts, felt the wettest tears, the longest laughs , and heard the most genuine secrets.
I carry my planner, my guide to life. Without it, I would even forget to breathe. It’s my handbook to survival. I’m constantly going from here, to there [doing this and doing that. It has thrown me into a rushed routine of moving non stop, and it seems to be the source, the battery pack of the whole movement. It’s always with me, and if it isn’t, it’s because I’m dead.
Most of all I carry imagination. It’s easily kept in a jar with holes I’ve drilled in the top years ago. Its constantly leaking into my reality. It gives me illusions that I don’t have a problem with saying no to opportunity. It seeps daydreams of big cities, nature scenes, and dim lights that spark fluorescent colors. When I’m in horrible situations it saves me by showing me what I would want to happen. I carry this with the most delicate care, because without imagination, I would most definitely loose the war with reality.