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( open ) everything else was just remembering.
It isn't a feeling Sarah is used to anymore.
Boredom.
It has been a long, long time since she's been able to stand still, and she finds, more often than not, she does not know what to do with this stillness. Being on the ship means having an imposed vacation from her real life and her real problems, and while she can't say she's entirely against that - it also feels like hiding. Pretending. Waiting can be more excruciating than having no time at all, and Sarah would know. For the first eighteen years of her life, she thought she wouldn't have the time to wait.
Now she has it to spare, and she is reacquainting herself with pleasures she's forgotten; watching old school movies while indulging in chocolates and staying up late into the night to watch the stars. These pleasures are age-worn in her memory, like a picture that is fading. She also finds, like most people do, some things are like riding a bike. A sketchpad and charcoal pencils have been located, and the rest becomes simple.
There is a bar by the pool and there is a fallen angel by the bar. She holds the sketchpad in one hand and the charcoal pencil in the other, like she is remembering.
She will offer to draw a face portrait to anyone who is interested, like she did the first day she ever arrived to Chicago.
There's a symmetry to that.
( ooc: prose or spam, i will match you! )
Boredom.
It has been a long, long time since she's been able to stand still, and she finds, more often than not, she does not know what to do with this stillness. Being on the ship means having an imposed vacation from her real life and her real problems, and while she can't say she's entirely against that - it also feels like hiding. Pretending. Waiting can be more excruciating than having no time at all, and Sarah would know. For the first eighteen years of her life, she thought she wouldn't have the time to wait.
Now she has it to spare, and she is reacquainting herself with pleasures she's forgotten; watching old school movies while indulging in chocolates and staying up late into the night to watch the stars. These pleasures are age-worn in her memory, like a picture that is fading. She also finds, like most people do, some things are like riding a bike. A sketchpad and charcoal pencils have been located, and the rest becomes simple.
There is a bar by the pool and there is a fallen angel by the bar. She holds the sketchpad in one hand and the charcoal pencil in the other, like she is remembering.
She will offer to draw a face portrait to anyone who is interested, like she did the first day she ever arrived to Chicago.
There's a symmetry to that.
( ooc: prose or spam, i will match you! )
no subject
She realizes that answer might be a tad confusing, so she elaborates. She really is better than she used to be at striking up conversations with strangers. Or what she thinks is a stranger. "It's not my first time on the ship, but I haven't been here long the second time around. Maybe a couple of days? The door won't budge, though."
And she's already tried everything; she knows that door ain't budging until it wants to.