Stream Of Consciousness Writing By Aubrey Veine

There's music coming from the computer speakers.
"Young Pilgrims" by The Shins.
"A cold and wet November dawn
And there are no barking sparrows
Just emptiness to dwell upon"
Emptiness.
Empty, like my mind. What to write?
My mind is blank.
"I watch the ice melt on the glass
While the eloquent young pilgrims pass"
I wonder what it's like to ride a train somewhere. I've been on one once, with my cousins and grandfather, but that was just a stupid train tour around the Hood River area. I had already been to the places that the train stopped at. It wasn't new or exciting.
What's it like to ride on the Trans-Siberian railroad? Is it cold and snowy? Dark? Does it wind through mountain passes and over vast, frozen tundra? Do the passengers wear fur hats and coats?
It reminds me of The Polar Express, my mom used to read that book to me when I was younger. I liked the reindeer. Maybe that's because I liked Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Mom said I could watch that movie over and over again.

Red. The shirt I'm wearing is red. I like the color red. It reminds me of old, brick buildings, and beautiful, scarlet dresses. Fresh apples, and rain-drenched fall leaves.

Green is nice too. The human eye can see more shades of green than any other color. Unless you're color blind, of course. I know someone who's color blind. He's a pretty cool guy. I also know someone who can't smell. It's cool, because they are both good-humored about their
I can't think of a good word.
Deformities?
That makes it sound like they're mutants. They're not, you can't tell that they can't see red and green, or can't smell just by looking at them, it's just in their DNA. In their genes.

I need new jeans. One of my pairs has a hole in the left knee.

My mind is blank now. All I can think about is how this pencil is moving on the paper.
Flowing.
Creating grey characters on paper that's white with blue lines.
Why blue lines? Why not eggplant or emerald?
The spiral spine of this notebook is bent. Probably from being stuffed into an already full backpack. It's shiny and metallic. I wonder what kind of metal it's made out of?
It doesn't really matter.

The ceiling fan is on.
It's always on. Always spinning at a steady, constant speed.
There's a large spiderweb on the brass chord that is supposed to change speeds or turn it off. We probably haven't touched that chord since Christmas, when we had family over.

I'm using my AP US History textbook as a hard surface to write on. That's about the only thing that mammoth book is good for. I'm really unhappy with AP US History. I never should have signed up for it.
I hope I do well on the final.

School's almost out.
I can't wait for summer. My friends and I are planning to go to the beach a lot. How many times we' really will go, I'm not sure.
Summer always is a let down.
At the beginning you have such high hopes, so many ideas of what you're going to do. You can start over. It's fresh and new, but becomes tiring and old.
I always end up just sitting around the house with nothing to do.

Anyway, I'm hungry so I'm going to go make lunch. Stream of consciousness writing is fun!