Screenwriting A Life

The gloomy rainy day reflects on the surface of puddles beneath my feet. My mother used to say that rain is the most important moment to appreciate the life and death of things around us. I look around me as I’m sitting with my bookbag waiting for the bus to arrive. I lift my wrist up to look at my silver watch.

1:45.

I am going to be late for class again.

I have nothing prepared for the presentation, but I only go to class for one girl. This girl has a death grip on my heart. I don’t even know her name. It must be something regal like Anastasia, or maybe something simple like Anne. She’s a gorgeous dark-haired girl with a single streak of platinum blonde in her hair. She has deep dark almond shaped eyes and somehow I see a reflection of my own soul within her. Her voice is deep, sultry and feminine. Her lips are full, plump and the most perfect shade of pink. Her sharp features could cut anyone who dared look at her wrong. The way she enters a room with such confidence. The sounds of passing cars blur out my image of her in my mind and I am pulled back to the rainy day. I look down at my watch again,

1:55.

I should have left earlier. But I can’t show up with nothing!

The bus pulls up mere moments later, I board it and take a seat in the back corner. I place my bookbag in the seat next to me on my right. The seats were covered in soft blue felt fabric that was slightly stained and aged. The red color of the exterior of the bus carries through the interior accents. It smelled foul inside. Maybe something died, like my inspiration to write. Raindrops stick to the window and drip down as it begins to rain again outside. The sounds of the drops hitting the roof of the bus and the sides of the windows. The soothing sound silences all the other chatter on the bus and helps me go back to my realm of infatuation with this girl. I pull my notebook out of my bag and a black ballpoint pen.

Write something, anything.

I stare at the blank page in hopes to find some sort of sign. I look out at the window and see people walking in the rain. I think about her again and I begin to write:

Deep within the eyes of the beloved, there is enchantment;

Siren’s eyes with endless stories;

I found a home there.

How I envy the sheets that have her scent embedded within them.

How I long to have her in my arms.

To know whether her lips taste like heaven on earth, or even better,

the forbidden fruit itself.

I know she does not see me as more than just a mere person in her days,

But I wish to be more, should she allow me the chance.

Let her laugher be because of me,

Her joy in sharing her special interests or things that fascinate her with me,

Her tears of sadness no longer go unnoticed or uncared for because I will wipe them away.

I wish for this siren to want me as I long for her.

My pen flowed with the depths of my emotions for her. Nameless. Even a name did not matter to me, just her. As I wrote down my last few lines, the bus comes to my stop and I rush to pack everything up again and leave the bus. Walking to the building, I see her walking before me. I think about everything I just wrote and poured my soul into.

How can I present this?