Kristal Atkinson















It might be poetry, it might be prose. It might be something so fucked up only I could come up with it. In the end, it's just words.


"Typing. That's all I'm doing. Sitting here typing. Letting words roll from my mind to my fingers. Tracing thought patterns I didn't even know I had. Occasionally stopping to watch the cursor blinking hauntingly back at me. Avoiding the words of poetry, letting the basics fall into place.
 
Contemplating the position this puts me in. If I am to ignore eloquence, does that make me no better than a common street whore sputtering unintelligible nonsense? Does that make sense? I don't feel like I should filter my thoughts, that I should edit them. That would be to alter something that is greater than me, greater than I can understand. Because I sure as fuck don't ever understand the ideas and romances that flutter through my subconscious.
 
I can't in good faith say that I really know anything besides the concrete. I know that if I have one apple, and I buy another, I have two apples. That I can say with some measure of certainty. But philosophy is beyond me. I know what I believe, but even that is always changing and adapting to the world around me."
 
College has opened up a world of opportunities to me. Double majoring in mechanical engineering and math keeps my days filled with more equations and concepts than the mind has the capacity to contain. Photography, poetry, writing, and art peak my interest and provide a balance between logic and creativity. Make believe wit keeps me thinking that I'm funnier than I actually am, and romanticism keeps me believe that perhaps fairytales really do come true.