Not Lost, Just Undiscovered

II. A Game of Chess (Stanza 7)

2012-02-09T00:05:00.002-05:00

When she came in uniform, he said—
“I missed you so, something wasn’t right without you”
GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS, GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS
“Make yourself useful, the floor’s dirty”
So she spat on it and held back the tears
She held for eight months
“There’s dirt underneath your fingernails”
She called him a failure for not finding a job
And he replied that he didn’t need one
If there were no kids to take care of.
She spit again, in the sink this time.
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS, GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS
She sat at the window
Behind a desk
And watched the leaves fall
One by one until the earth had a blanket
But she was cold.
“We’re not getting any younger"
Why would she want another version of herself,
Sad and hollow and small.
“A figure like that can’t support a baby”
He speaks to her bones.
He bursts in the door every 2 A.M.,
Slurring words and stenches of cheap perfume,
He bleeds guilt but feels nothing.
GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS, GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS
“I need a real woman”
A ring on the finger but no children
To bear a concoction of your features,
An unfulfilled prophecy; selfish.
GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS
GUNS AREN’T FOR GIRLS
Goodbye captain. Goodbye sergeant. Goodbye lieutenant. Goodbye.
Farewell. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Goodbye gentlemen, goodbye brothers, goodbye, goodbye.

II. A Game of Chess (Stanzas 5 & 6)

2012-02-05T14:31:00.001-05:00

I remember
When I first saw your gaping mouth, your lifeless eyes
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your
head?’
Please

Doctor, doctor won’t you please prescribe me something
A day in the life of someone else?
Because I’m a hazard to myself
I’m my own worst enemy
‘What can I do now? What can I do?’
‘My capabilities running through my fingers like
grains of sand, I shall rush out
‘As I am, no glance in a mirror
‘No costume on my face, so. Where do I go now?
‘Where do I ever go?’
A meeting at noon.
And if it snows, by the fireplace we’ll be again,
And we shall play a game of chess.
We are just as much of no one as the hollow eyes
Over coffee cups,
We are vapors, temporary,
The steam billowing from the milky brown elixir
We exist, we rise, then we disappear.

II. A Game of Chess (Stanzas 2, 3, & 4)

2012-02-05T14:28:00.002-05:00

‘The dreams are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
‘Comfort me. Why are you so cold. Empty.
‘What were you thinking? What thinking?
What?
‘I never knew what you were doing. Remember.’

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

‘What is that noise?’
Death’s twilight kingdom
‘What is that noise now? Do you hear the thunder?’
Nothing again nothing.
‘Do
‘You hear nothing? Did you think nothing? Do you
remember
‘Nothing?’

Note: there are several indentations that I intended to make here that show up in Microsoft Word but not Blogger. Same goes for other stanzas.

Lazy Sunday

2012-02-05T13:46:00.003-05:00

Wow being sick is so great!! I missed three days of school and have basically been sick on and off since last Sunday. Luckily my immune system has finally decided to forgive me, and I'm pretty much healthy again.
Being sick means that I haven't had much time to write. In fact, I got 16 pages behind in my Writing Workshop class. Luckily, I managed to crank out 8 pages yesterday and 8 today, so I'm pretty much caught up. That also means I have more of The Waste Land to post!
I don't have much to update on, although being a second semester senior doesn't bring much crazy life updates in general. It's Superbowl Sunday, but I would be lying if I said I was really excited. What I'm more interested in is the Michigan vs. Michigan State basketball game, but the Wolverines are having a poor showing so far.
My wi-fi's been awful lately, and actually I had finished this little rant and was going to post it but then the internet stopped working and deleted half my post. Talk about first world problems. But from what I can remember, basically I said that I was astonished that Spirit Week starts tomorrow. Usually it's months of me biting my nails and thinking about costumes and such, but this year I guess I'm just going through the motions. Maybe once it starts I'll have more energy and excitement.
That being said, it's going to be a crazy busy week. I also have three basketball games which means I'm going to be all over the place and extra busy. So I apologize in advance for not posting much. Thanks for your patience, whoever you are out there!

New

2012-02-01T23:30:00.002-05:00

I'm not in it to win it, I'm in it for you.

II. A Game of Chess (Stanza 1)

2012-01-29T23:33:00.002-05:00

The Chair she sat in, like a lonely throne,
Ebony legs met chestnut floor, glowing
By solemn candlelight, shadows in a dance,
Circling, changing with every flicker,
Her diamonds reflecting their own light.
Shadow puppets from sterling silver, cast iron, twenty four carat gold,
(They had more life than her.)
She saw herself in the glass cover of the cabinet,
Saw her sunken eyes and the dancing around her,
Saw her plants, her powders, her pills,
Saw the smoke form the joint between her skeletal fingers
join the smoke of the candles,
Saw the scars on the walls and remembered her broken promise—
troubled, confused
And drowned the sense by inhaling; forgetting.
Suddenly everything became brighter, louder.
Reds burst from the sides of her well-worn nails,
Bitten to the core, she swore she could see her bones,
Bare and white as her hollow skin.
In the sad light her skeleton danced,
All alone
But beautiful,
Moving to no music.
She looked to the window and was reminded of her emptiness.
She surrendered to the Poseidons of her eyes,
She let herself drown
She drowned in her throne
She was the queen, she was every color.
Silence screamed form her desperate mouth
She swallowed all the darkness,
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Quiet, girl,” from crooked teeth,
Tracing curves of her silhouette
The shadows teased and tickled.
She felt the heat of the candles, she burned,
She tore out her hair and watched it burst into flames,
Her skin fell as ashes.
The throne was empty, the room still.

Hallelujah

2012-01-25T22:53:00.000-05:00

You're the girl in the back of the room
My wallflower that's in bloom
You're so oblivious to this
But I could fall into those eyes
Pretty circles that I try
To escape into, yeah

Well, Hallelujah, when you look at me
Hallelujah, you're the halo over me
You're all that I need

With you, every day is Saturday
With you, every word you say is like a song
With you, well, everything is obvious
Hallelujah, hallelujah, well I found you
I found you, I found you, Hallelujah

I never thought I'd take that jump
A nervous laugh around someone
I'm sleeping in the palm of your hand
The way you whisper on the phone
I hear your voice when I'm alone
You always understand just who I am

Hallelujah, your love is free
Hallelujah, you're the halo over me
And you're all I need

With you, every day is Saturday
With you, every word you say is like a song
With you, well, everything is obvious
Hallelujah, hallelujah, I found you
I found you, I found you, Hallelujah

The best things are unexpected just like this
Like a billboard in the sky you just can't miss
And I'm never letting this love go

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
With you, every day is Saturday
With you, yeah, every word you say is like a song
With you, yeah, everything is obvious
Hallelujah, hallelujah, 'cause I found you
Yeah, I found you, yeah I found you
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, hallelujah

I. The Burial of the Dead (Stanza 4)

2012-01-24T22:30:00.001-05:00

Millions of nobodies
Grasping for sunlight captured by concrete vortexes
Sculpting their view of the sky.
Each walks lifelessly through the maze,
Sunken eyes and Starbucks cups,
Anonymity whispered in their footsteps.
Iron gates at 116th and Broadway conceal a world.
One o’ clock meant you were supposed to be somewhere,
Buried in leather-bound books or Jack Daniels,
A temporary ignorance of a permanent problem.
She put down the book, the bottle,
And saw him standing there, hollow-eyed too.
He looked familiar.
“Let’s be miserable together, let’s go nowhere together.”
And so they talked and kissed and touched.
He smelled like old paper and whiskey,
But her heart lurched, and she was lonely
So she laughed. And they slept together.
When she woke, the table was empty
And the bottle remained.
What happened?
“You! hypocrite lecteur! — mon sembable, — mon frère!”

I. The Burial of the Dead (Stanza 3)

2012-01-24T22:28:00.001-05:00

A slick bun and a pencil skirt,
Takes firm notes on a clipboard
And click-clack-click-clacks through the hallway.
Her pointed nose and sharp eyebrows speak volumes.
You think you can read her like a book,
Her pages worn, her spine torn.
(She’ll pick your insecurities until you beg for mercy)
Tsk-tsk and a turn of her head,
Pursed lips and you know you’re done for.
The tights, the shoes, the tie, the hair,
All wrong, all wrong.
She’ll burn you through the floor
Until you are only ashes,
But you still want to please her,
You are no longer human.
Hollow, heartless, every type of empty
To cover up her burial ground.
Her wrists ridged, covering up nightmares,
Waking up drowning in her own sweat.
The Helpless Woman. Fear death by water.
Briefcases and pleated pants suffocate you.
Woman, you make money,
But even I could tell you that’s not the secret to happiness.

I. The Burial of the Dead (Stanza 2)

2012-01-23T23:46:00.002-05:00

Beneath the landscape, stained of reds and golds,
Are roots still the veins of the earth in the autumn?
The air is dry and can no longer feed you answers,
Bare branches leak what little sunlight remains,
Casting shadows of skeletons on the ground,
A maple graveyard. The wind bites at your ears,
Filling every crevasse of your shivers.
(Come in under this blanket)
And we can watch the world die
While we watch frostbite tease fingertips
And watch darkness consume the light.
I will watch your eyes as you begin to understand the world.
Sunrise, sunrise,
Looks like morning in your eyes.
Sunrise, sunrise,
Couldn't tempt us if it tried.
"Sixteen sunflowers on the sixteenth year,
Didn't die for sixteen days."
-You were two thousand miles away,
But distance didn't keep words from failing,
And my breath lost when we met again in the airport.
Was there a world outside the two of us?
It was cold, like October, and I was numb.
Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I'm reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop this ending?
I thought of just your face
Relaxed, and floated into space.

I. The Burial of the Dead (Stanza 1)

2012-01-22T23:27:00.005-05:00

October is the heartless month, chasing
Sunlight with blood red leaves, painting
The earth and concrete, stealing
Last breaths of fragile grass.
Spring kept us waiting, watching
Taunting rain switch on and off, drowning
The flowers that were not ready.
Summer tackled us with Atlantic waves,
Saltwater swallowing our laughter.
Ghost crabs tickled our feet when the sun came down,
And we returned home to eat their cousins.
I was no more than five feet tall,
But I let the current take me and listened
To its stories and travels.
In the grip of my father I was safe.
He told me when to breathe
And let me go when I was ready.
I write in the light to try and make sense of what was dark.

An Inconvenient Truth

2012-01-22T23:27:00.004-05:00

Everyone should go watch this movie. Now.

Disaster

2012-01-17T23:58:00.002-05:00

(Freewrite, ~8 minutes, after a 1.5 minute freewrite on the word "disaster"; the object was to keep your pen moving)
She fell onto her knees in the middle of the pavement, adding to the array of cuts and bruises that tattooed her once pure skin. It wasn't fair. She ran through the woods, the sidewalks, traced every step that they used to run, and he was there, he was there. She could sense him. But he was gone.
Hair, splattered in soaking branches across her face, crawled into her open mouth as she sobbed. The neighbors watched pitifully behind windows, where their perfect lives remained like museum exhibits. She was hollow, they were full. She could see the heaving of her chest and feel the warmth of her throat as vomit rose but the world was silent. Rain fell like bullets around her and traced tauntingly at her fragile skin and she eroded right there on the pavement.

Narrative

2012-01-12T22:55:00.002-05:00

"I hate a song that makes you think you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim. Too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling. I'm out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you.
"I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own songs and to sing the kind that knock you down farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think you've not got any sense at all. But I decided a long time ago that I'd starve to death before I'd sing any such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes and your songbooks are already loaded down and running over with such no good songs as that anyhow."

-Woody Guthrie

Subjectivity

2012-01-10T23:28:00.006-05:00

And so begins a new semester. I managed to switch into Writing Workshop, and even after two days of class I can already tell that this was a brilliant choice.

Today, I was asked one of the most difficult questions I have faced in a long time; what is "good" writing? My answer? "Thought-provoking! It doesn't need to be violent or dramatic, but if it provokes thought or reflection in the reader, it is good writing. The writing takes twists and turns, however little, and covers ideas that few have tread on before, or looks at a typical object in a new lens. 'No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.'"
Among the class's answers were: distinctive voices, vivid characters, pleasing language, variety, and conflict. Is good writing all subjective? How do you classify powerful writing? How is one piece more powerful than another?

This, in addition to our discussion on freewriting and its multiple purposes, is not helping me in my state of writer's block. Although, I wouldn't really call it writer's block. It's more like a cluttered mind. Hopefully this three day weekend will help me sort through my head. There is so much writing I want to be doing, but then other things come up and suddenly writing is shoved to the end of my list.

Life's rough, isn't it?

Books

2012-01-08T23:23:00.004-05:00

I truly believe that a book is one of the best gifts you can give to a person. Sure, you can give people clothes and jewelry and whatever, but with things like that, they take one look at it and decide whether they love it or hate it. With a book, they have to at least give it a try. It doesn't even have to have words in it. Even if it's just a book of photographs or other art, it gets them thinking. Maybe I'm just going on this rant because I recently picked up reading again and now I remember all the greatness I was missing out on. Or maybe because I want other people to realize how great reading is (sorry, Kindles don't count).
Now that I think about it, I really want someone to get me a book. It doesn't have to be great, but I'm terrible at picking out books for myself. I was at Barnes&Noble yesterday returning a book that I had a second copy of, and looked for a book to replace it. I intended on picking up a new PostSecret book and leaving, but then I remembered the poetry section and spent an hour leafing through books. I settled with From Totems to Hip-Hop: A Multicultural Anthology of Poetry Across the Americas, 1900-2002. After I finish the book I'm currently reading, maybe this will be next.
Of course, another one of the best gifts you can give to someone is music, but I could go on and on about that.
Sorry I don't have any new writing of my own to post. But here is a Pablo Neruda poem I like:

The Queen

I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
all the rivers sound
in my body, bells
shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

In Phan Thiet - Huu Thinh

2012-01-06T23:45:00.002-05:00

(translated from Vietnamese)

He owns nothing, not even a blade of grass
Though the hills are wide, not even a small plot of earth,
Yet my brother belongs to the land and sky of Phan Thiet.

It was here he first saw the sea,
Through an opening in a bunker
After days of climbing—
The ocean immense, the bunker so narrow
A sand shower whitened his shoulders at the slightest motion.

The stench of gunpowder and sweat in that place,
The uncontrollable beating of his heart,
The intense moist wind,
The sea rocking as anxiously as a ship about to leave.

Stars shining in the deep night
Cut trails towards the water,
The soldiers groping through hills by their light that December,
My brother among them,
Ocean rushing forward, embracing all,
And love for the sea made them careless—
He died in bombs raining down
Only inches from the water.

Here you are elder brother, though I’d been looking
Elsewhere, hope motivating me to scale the slopes
in Tan Canh,
Sa Thay,
Dac Pet,
Dac To.

I’ve had the fevers you had,
Soaked in the same jungle rain you soaked in,
But never imagined an afternoon in Phan Thiet
When I would stand crying alone behind a car.

The jungle is still there, the battle ground still there.
A few more steps to reach Highway One,
Just a few more,
And yet
Nothing can change what is or what happened.
The sea is the same deep blue as when you fell.

I don’t know the name of that hill,
But I know you are still standing there
Unaware the alert has long ended,
Unaware of news from home, or of your brother’s face.

Not lying in a cemetery,
You live with the hill, turning green with its grass,
The blades of it have become our family’s joss sticks,
And this hill is also our mother’s child.

I’ve had to bear all other family concerns.

Car horns blare as night deepens in Phan Thiet.
Lights of the city show the way for a fisherman.
You do not sleep, and the fisherman does not sleep—
You both have nightly conversations with the sea.

In that way, Phan Thiet owns my brother.

2012-01-06T23:33:00.004-05:00

"It matters not what someone is born,

but what they grow to be."

-Albus Dumbledore

Genius never dies

2012-01-05T23:35:00.002-05:00

T.S. Eliot: a project in the making

2012-01-05T23:26:00.002-05:00

So besides the idiot Barnes&Noble employee that helped me try and find a book a few months ago, I'm assuming you all have at least heard of T.S. Eliot. This past semester, I took an English elective called "Into the Modern," and for a semester we studied the movement in British literature from the late nineteenth century to the early twentieth century.
One of the texts we read was Eliot's "The Waste Land," and after completing the poem, we were given an assignment to choose three short sections from the poem and replace them with contemporary verses. Not everyone in the class was as enthusiastic as I was about the project.
Even though about a month has passed since the project was due, I have had the idea in the back of my mind to rewrite the entire poem. Here is a section I covered in the project, taken from section III, "The Fire Sermon":

“Skeleton streets and dusty leather chairs.
Abandoned by Staten Island, Queens and Brooklyn
Emptied me. By Queens I surrendered myself,
Selling my anonymous body to hungry passersby.

“My hands are at Ground Zero, and my head
In my hands. After that day
He was gone. He had promised a new start.
Without my heart, where do I go?

“On the Atlantic City boardwalk,
I am nothing
Among everything.
Foreign hands on my body plead physical pleasure.
My mother, my cousin, my daughter know
Nothing.
I am no one.”

I was required to write approximately one page analyses for each section, but I don't want to bore you with that. I'll post as I go. Wish me luck!

Cold Shoulder

2012-01-05T23:16:00.000-05:00

She is such a boss.

For You

2012-01-02T21:16:00.001-05:00

I like to run.
So I ran from you.

Pounded my feet into concrete
Instead of fists into books
Like I used to
Because words hurt more than
Running away.

I ran in bare feet
So I could cry over you
But blame it on the blood.
My feet tore and my heart ripped,
You took out my pages.

I was wordless.
It was my fault.

I ran in the rain
Because fresh water tasted better
Than salt.

I ran because running
Is easier than falling,
Especially when you feel like
There's nothing beneath you.

If I ran fast enough,
The ground disappeared.

But one day I jumped
Just to remember what falling felt like.
It was then I realized
I had a parachute the whole time.

My apologies mixed in with yours,
Words tied into strings
Laced around my shoulders,
Through my fingers,
The warmth of your hands.

A paper parachute.

We kept writing,
And I let myself fall again.
The wind wasn't cold laughter this time;
It sang,
And clouds turned transparent.

You were there,
You are here now.

The wind kissed my lips
And gave me words to speak,
Stung my eyes,
But let me see.
The scars became maps,
So I walked to the edge.

This parachute is big enough for two.
Will you take my words

And jump with me?

Return

2012-01-02T21:05:00.003-05:00

Hi there. Happy new year!

So I've decided to return to this blog now that I'm a second semester senior (no, not as a new year's resolution. I never keep those). Not only will I be working on the resurrection of my school's literary magazine, but I will also be a member of the new writing workshop senior seminar, so I guess I'll have to write now. Bummer, right?

I'll also have a lot more time on my hands, especially once I finish my final two college applications. I'm still completely convinced that no one reads this but I'm going to keep posting anyway. I like having a place to keep all of my writing and cool pictures I find and post on here in one place. In fact, I have definitely come back to visit this blog to find multiple pieces. For those of you who have ever taken a look at this page--thanks for that.

Speaking of new writing and whatever, I have a poem I wrote recently that I want to post on here. It was my first time writing since attending the program at Northwestern this past summer; I was pretty rusty at first, but, like usual, once I started I couldn't stop. I wrote it for my best friend. I hope he liked it.

2011-05-30T13:32:00.002-04:00

"Promise yourself to be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind. Look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true. Think only of the best, work only for the best, and expect only the best. Forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future. Give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others. Live in the faith that the whole world is on your side so long as you are true to the best that is in you!" -Christian D. Larson

2011-05-08T21:42:00.001-04:00

Maybe I'll just get a tumblr account instead.

Silence

2011-05-02T19:46:00.001-04:00

I see lovers in the streets
Walking without a care
They wear it out loud
Like there's something in the air
Oh well, I don't care

They're treading lightly
No, they don't sink in
There's no tracks to follow
They don't care where they're going

And if they're lucky, yeah
They'll, they'll get to see
And if they're really, really lucky
They'll get to feel

And it kicks so hard, it breaks your bones
Cuts so deep, it hits your soul
Tears your skin, and makes your blood flow
It's better that you know
That love is hard

Love takes hostages
And gives them pain
Gives someone the power
To hurt you again and again
Oh, but they don't care

Oh, and if they're lucky yeah,
They'll, they'll get to see
And if they're really, really lucky
They'll, they'll get to feel
And if they're, they're truly blessed
Then they'll get to believe
And if you're damned
You'll never let yourself be deceived

And it kicks so hard, it breaks your bones
Cuts so deep, it hits your soul
Tears your skin, and makes your blood flow
It's better that we know
That love is hard

Love is hard, love is hard
If it was easy it wouldn't mean nothing, no.

-James Morrison

Passing

2011-03-21T21:00:00.003-04:00

"Catlike. Certainly that was the word which best described Clare Kendry, if any single word could describe her. Sometimes she was hard and apparently without feeling at all; sometimes she was affectionate and rashly impulsive. And there was about her an amazing soft malice, hidden well away until provoked. Then she was capable of scratching, and very effectively too. Or. driven to anger, she would fight with a ferocity and impetuousness that disregarded or forgot any danger; superior strength, numbers, or unfavourable circumstances."

Solitude - Ella Wheeler Wilcox

2011-03-15T15:53:00.002-04:00

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Letters

2011-03-13T18:51:00.001-04:00

He lifted up the fold of the envelope, and shattered glass poured out onto the floor, cutting his feet wherever he stepped.
At least, that was how it felt.
Although the floor was covered in blood, it wasn’t his.
The envelope contained a single piece of paper, its folds and edges frayed. The ink was smudged and there were droplets tattooing the paper, but whether it was from tears of sadness or relief, he had yet to find out.
The clock flashed 3:14 at him, a red laser in the darkness taunting and reminding him of how only a few hours had passed; but it felt like each second crawled by. The silence in the worn living room was deafening, even louder than how the hospital was just minutes ago.
“I love you,” she had gasped, “but there’s something you don’t know.”
That was the last thing she said before she fell unconscious.
On the stretcher, she had been mumbling about a letter, but he was unable to hear her over the doctor’s screams and the beeping of the machines. They argued about drunk driving and the possible use of a knife, and he had to resist the urge to punch all of them for assuming this happened on accident. Only he knew the truth – or at least part of it.
Her mother had burst into the waiting room seconds after the doctors closed the doors to her daughter’s room. He was shocked to see how disheveled she was – he knew her as a put-together, obsessive-compulsive, successful businesswoman. But with strands of hair falling out of her bun and her foundation streaked with tears, no one could have been able to even guess that she was a chief executive. She was panting when she approached him.
“She wants you to go to her apartment,” she stuttered, pausing every two or three words. “There’s something for you there. That was the last thing she told me.”
Then she burst into tears again, deepening the faults in her makeup.

* * *

That was how he ended up in the dark living room, not even noticing the darkness because he was in so much shock. He squinted and read the letter in the moonlight streaming through the faded eggshell-colored curtains, the smell of death still hovering in the room. The worn and torn paper contained only eight hastily scrawled words, but those eight drove needles into his eyes.
“Look on the top shelf of the closet.”
Even though his feet felt stapled to the ground, he managed to take small steps. He shuffled through the hallway in a daze, glancing at the photographs framed on the walls, eerily crooked and streaked with angry fingerprints. Her bedroom was usually sixteen steps away – he had that memorized by week three of their relationship – but as he dragged his feet it, felt like six hundred.
As he approached the doorway, he saw that her tableside lamp was on, mimicking the moonlight, only brighter. The moment he stepped in the room, the floor sounded its familiar creak, leftover from the 1989 floor repair after the pipes burst in the apartment below. The whisper of the wood shot warmth through his veins, if only for a second, reminding him that not everything had been shattered in the past few hours.
Her closet was color-coordinated, all of the storage boxes perfectly parallel with the ends of its shelves. But one leg of the vintage-looking wooden box that rested on the top shelf hung over the edge, appearing completely out of place. He wrapped his hands around the chest as though it was a newborn, slowly lowering it to eye level, and after examining it for a few slow seconds, he placed it on her bedside table under the lamp and sat on her bed.
With two fingers, he delicately lifted the lid of the box, coughing out dust as its contents were revealed. The interior was lined with purple velvet, and he traced the seams as though he could feel her touch. The velvet still smelled like her, even with the numerous folded papers stuffed in the box. Each note was carefully numbered, a striking contrast to the rushed manuscript on the paper in the envelope. He dug around the box and unearthed note number one. The paper was almost as delicate as the note in the living room, and he unfolded it as easily as if it were a piece of fabric. The first thing he read among the dozens of lines of writing was his own name.

Colin –
You’re simply unbelievable. It’s only taken three weeks for me to fall head over heels for you, and there has yet to be a day where you don’t put a smile on my face. Every day since we met, you have told me I’m beautiful, and I’m beginning to believe you.
I want to spend more time with you. I want to spend more time getting to know you. I want to spend more time enjoying life with you.
You love me even for all of my faults, which scares me. But when I’m with you, I’ve never felt more secure. I appreciate every single thing you do for me and everything you have taught me.
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this. It’s because it’s Tuesday today, and I love you.
– Leila

The letter was puzzling, but he felt a subconscious smile lingering on his face as he opened the second note.

Colin –
It’s been about thirty-six hours since I wrote my first letter, and I already regret not giving it to you. You deserve to know how important you are to me.
You take care of me. Most women my age would probably be embarrassed to admit how they stay up all night thinking about how their boyfriend held them back from crossing the street when they weren’t paying attention, but even simple things like that keep me awake reflecting on how blessed I am to have you in my life.
You whispered in my ear today at the restaurant. You said, “I hope that when you’re with me, no matter where we are, you feel at home.” Colin, you have no idea how true that is. You created a home for me when I felt deserted everywhere else. Before you, I felt lost, I was nowhere. But now I am at home.
This morning you arrived at my door and brought me my favorite drink – a grandé mocha, extra whip, 2% dark chocolate milk. As the whipped cream lingered just above my lips I was reminded of the sweetness of your kisses, and I imagined you standing in the freezing cold, your right foot tapping as you waited for Alec the barista to finish making the coffee in the outdoor booth.
You take care of me, Colin. You run your fingers over my skin as though you are touching the most expensive silk in the world. You wipe my tears as carefully as an artist fixing his work. Maybe I am your piece of work – you changed me and shaped me, but you have made me happier than words can describe in a stupid letter like this one.
You are gentle with every touch, you speak as softly as the murmur of a breeze, and I treasure your gaze even when you think I’m not looking. I love you, Colin. Thank you.
– Leila

He folded letter number two back up, wanting nothing more than to rush back to the hospital and feel that familiar surge of warmth he got by holding her in his arms, but something was tugging at him in the back of his mind, reminding him that he was brought to the notes for a reason. He continued to read.

Colin –
I love you, but there’s something you don’t know.
I should have given you those letters when I wrote them. I thought that maybe if you ever read this you would have a chance to understand what I went through.
Today I tried telling you what I’m going to write here, if I can even write it. You’re going to hate me. You’re going to be disgusted with me.
Colin, the reason why you are so important to me is because my last relationship was a living nightmare. I can’t even write down his name. He abused me, Colin. We lived together, and he kept me emotionally tied to him. You helped me unpack in this apartment, but I invited you to stay those first few nights because I couldn’t sleep alone.
The scar on my temple that you love running your fingers across is the part of me I hate the most. It tears me apart inside to look at it in the mirror every day, but I can’t bear to take away the smile you get after you kiss its haunting line. He had his hands on my neck, and barely pressing the blade of his knife to my skin, dragging it across those eternal two and a half centimeters.
His fist seemed to find a home on my flesh – every single day he would strike my arms, my chin, my legs, my shoulders. He threatened me at gunpoint four times and with rope six, but I knew he wouldn’t kill me. He was too infatuated. He loved seeing the purple, blue, and green galaxies of swelling bruises that formed the next day. But in some sick way, I loved him back. I hate myself for it.
We lived in an apartment much different than this one. He chose the isolated room in the corner of the building so no one could hear my screams. They were his favorite noise, like music soothing him into a trance.
He never looked at me the way you do. He didn’t really love me like he claimed – he was just obsessed. He taught me that love is pain, love is feeling suffocated, love is one person strong and one person weak.
After two years, I finally found the strength to leave. I walked right out and spent a week and a half on the street until I was hospitalized with hypothermia after a nasty snowfall. I did not have enough courage to admit what I had been scarred by, blaming the hypothermia on bad exercise habits instead. They asked me about my bruises, too. I swapped the word pushed with fell and told them it was an accident going down the stairs.
Then I lived with my mother for a while. She knew something was wrong with me, but to this day she won’t dare ask. When I was living with her, I slipped into a horrible depression. I laid in my bed all day with the blinds down so the guest room was quiet at all hours. Tissues were useless because the tops of my sheets were constantly soaked anyway. They made me shiver, but I wouldn’t dare get up to change them. I was too weak, too fragile, too broken. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face again, his fist swinging towards my left cheek. Every time I opened my eyes, I stared at the door, tears falling over the bridge of my nose as I lay on my side, fearing each second that he would burst through that door and point his gun at me again. My mother resumed her regular job schedule almost immediately, leaving and coming home like clockwork, only coming in my room after delicately knocking to bring me small portions of leftovers.
She loves you, you know. She loves that you take care of me, just like I wrote.
And she was right.
You made life worth living again.
– Leila

Colin noticed that the ink began to bleed again towards the end of the letter, but the marks were not Leila’s this time – they were his own. He reached for the fourth note.

Colin –
What’s happening to me?
I don’t like time. I have lost so many hours thinking about time.
I don’t write the dates on these pages because I don’t like looking at time.
But I will tell you it has been three months. Three months since I wrote my last letter, and 128 days since I have been keeping these.
It’s come back, Colin.
My dreams, they’re repeating themselves. I see his green eyes staring at me hungrily. I can smell his horrible cigarette breath that clung to my lips after his forceful kisses.
I don’t know what to do. You’re right here with me, and we’re talking, but my secrets lie underneath my words.
– Leila

Colin –
I can’t stand your touch anymore.
It reminds me too much of him.
I know you’re not him.
But I can’t separate anyone,
anything from him now.
– Leila

There was one note left lying in the velvet, its number six tantalizing Colin’s eyes. He was not prepared for whatever message this single paper contained, whether it was as cryptic as the previous note or as painfully detailed as the third.
The lamp threatened to burn out and the moonlight had begun to fade, pink and purple streaks twisting in the sky, hinting at dawn. The amount of light did not matter, as long as he could still read this last letter.

Colin –
I have to go. There is no purpose for me here. I want to cry, I want to feel sadness as I write you this letter, I want the ink to smudge so much that you can’t read this and maybe hope that I’m still here.
I need to be able to feel again, to wake up and see sunlight instead of all of these clouds, fogging my vision.
I’m sorry I’m so weak, that I am unable to see eye-to-eye with you anymore. Maybe you didn’t notice, but to me it has become unbearable.
There’s nothing good left ahead of me here. I have been hanging on by my last thread of the rope for too long, and the string has finally broken. I only have one option now.
But there is one last thing I need from you before I leave. I need to see that warm look in your eyes, feel you run your fingers over my skin as though you are touching the most expensive silk in the world, taste the sweetness of your kiss linger on my lips like the mocha’s whipped cream one last time. That’s the last thing I need.

Colin’s eyes traced and retraced the final paragraph of the note.
Then he realized what he needed to do.
He ran down three flights of stairs to the parking garage, his feet nearly running faster than his own shoes. The next time he caught his breath, he was weaving through lanes of cars, deaf to the sound of their horns and the skidding of his brakes. The entire drive was a blur of red, green, and yellow, all morphing into white and the smell of antibacterial hand sanitizer as he burst through the door of the Emergency Room. He rushed past empty stretchers and operating rooms until he was face-to-face with the temporary nameplate that read the name mirrored on the notes in the wooden box, crooked on the shelf in her closet.
Colin opened the door, holding his breath. Leila’s chest rose and fell beautifully, a miracle spotlighted under the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling, and Colin finally exhaled, in sync with her.
Her eyelids fluttered when he ran his fingers through her hair, tangled with dried blood. It was as though she could sense his presence, the pulse in his fingertips giving life to her.
A whisper escaped from her lips, barely audible over the regulated beeping of the heart monitor.
“I love you, and now you know.”
Then the only sound in the room was a single tone.

2011-03-13T18:49:00.001-04:00

2011-03-13T18:45:00.000-04:00

I think if you wait long enough for all your attempts to fail, you'll finally find the right one after fucking up so many times.

Best Days

2011-02-28T22:10:00.001-05:00

Who knew Mondays could be bearable?

.......I'm going to be published!
Never doubt your potential.

Gonna come round soon

2011-02-10T23:11:00.004-05:00

You know that post I had that I deleted? Yeah, well, that was stupid.

I sit in my bed
And wiggle my toes where they once touched yours
Your notes, once paper
Feel like fabric now
I was ready to tell you, but you weren't ready to listen
No, you turned your head
Can't you tell you're just making my mistake?
We felt like children
But now we feel like doctors
Dissecting every word
Prodding at each problem
Searching for a diagnosis.
I hate doctors, you know.
You were stupid and drunk and you chose her instead
Because you felt sorry for her
If only you knew what I had been through
Maybe then we'd be stupid and drunk together.
You wrote three letters.
"P.S. Remember that everybody loves you and you're really amazing and perfect and unbelievably beautiful."
"You really do change me."
"I'm going to see you tomorrow, and you'll make my whole week better."
Spoken word is impermanent
Fading as soon as they release from your lips
But what you wrote
Will never leave
And maybe if you let me tell you my story
You won't leave either.

Guess who's back, tell a friend

2011-02-09T21:09:00.004-05:00

I wrote this a long while back, debated posting it, then pushed it aside. But you know what? I don't care. So here it is.

I fell in love when I was fifteen.

We sat on the slope of a hill, and his head was in his hands. Tears threatened to fall, but I know he wouldn't let them.

"I'm sorry," I repeated for the twelfth time. "I can't change what I feel."

It had been a seven-month whirlwind, from my skin being stuck to the leather in his car from kissing for so long, to three hour long phone conversations, the picnic table soaked with my tears as the realization that everything was back to haunt me had sunken in.

He held my hand, he kissed my cheek, he made me dizzy with every touch, and we were in love.

But now he didn't understand. I stared at the middle schoolers playing soccer, and every time I closed my eyes, I prayed to a nonexisting god to switch places with one of them, to go back to before my heart was torn, hanging onto the last stitch.

His eyes told me that he heard me, but his body sent a message of confusion, and I knew I had broken his heart as well as mine.

He stood up and walked up the hill, stopping at the top. I followed him, more tears falling at every step.

He kissed my cheek one last time, tasting my tears, then got in his car and drove away.

"I always loved you" was the last thing he said to me.

Who needs angels anyway?

2011-01-20T10:46:00.000-05:00

I could use another cigarette
But don't worry daddy, I'm not addicted yet
One too many drinks tonight and I miss you
Like you were mine

All your stormy words have barely broken
And you sound like thunder though
You've barely spoken
Oh, it looks like rain tonight and thank God
'Cause a clear sky just wouldn't feel right.

He's taken and leaving
But I keep believing
That he's gonna come round soon
(He'll come round soon I know)
You may be my final match
'Cause I chase everything when you play
Throw and I play catch
It never took much to keep me satisfied
But all the bullshit you feed me you miss me
You need me
This hungry heart will not subside

He's taken and leaving
But I keep believing
That he's gonna come round soon
Until I see him again
I'm staying believing
That it won't be deceiving
When he's gonna come round

Well I may seem naive if I cry as you leave
Like I'm just one more tortured heart
These cracks that I show as I'm watching
You go aren't tearing me apart
I may seem naive if I cry as you leave
Like I'm just one more tortured heart
These cracks that I show as I'm watching
You go aren't tearing me apart

The angels said I'd smile today
Well who needs angels anyway?

2010-12-25T23:21:00.002-05:00

Merry Christmas!

2 down, 4 to go

2010-12-14T16:40:00.003-05:00

I apologize for the gap in posts - exams are this week.

Ain't as bad as we all talk it up to be.

I'll have more soon! Promise!

Explanation

2010-12-10T23:39:00.003-05:00

I deleted it because I chose to.
I don't want any more questions.

Letter to you

2010-12-09T21:47:00.006-05:00

"Don't be fooled by the calendar, there are only as many days in the year as you make use of."

-Charles Richards

Hi, blog.
I forgot your birthday.

I started my blog on November 27th, 2009, and since then, I have done nothing but grow. It's funny to see when I was being a silly teenager, head over heels one day and melodramatic the next. Oh wait, that sounds familiar...
One of the items on my makeshift bucket list - created during my Buried Life obsession - was to keep my blog for a year. Thank you so much to everyone who reads this, whether you have glanced at it once or followed it the entire time. Thank you to those who comment, and thank you to those who don't but reveal themselves - the surprise that someone still keeps up with my ramblings never fails to make my day. Thank you for dealing with my crazy emotional ups and downs and my endless rants about boys, sports, life, whatever.
Anyway, one thing I've learned is that my Tuesday Tellings (for those of you who don't know, that was my weekly secret-revealing) were a mistake. Once I started keeping my personal secrets, I felt more like I had a story. And isn't that what I always wanted?
Speaking of stories, I have made the decision to tell a new person my story. This person has become increasingly more important to me, and I value their opinions and care about them probably more than they realize. I hope they are ready to hear what I have to say.

After all, you were ready, weren't you?

Reveal

2010-12-06T23:30:00.002-05:00

Little did you know, your comment made my day.

No,

my entire month.

Thank you.

Stuck, frozen, stopped

2010-12-06T23:23:00.002-05:00

So basically this is just me ranting about how I'm sick of stereotypes and cattiness and whatnot.

For a second, she

Hesitates -

Am I beautiful enough?

No, and I'm not smart either.

See that girl,

She walks the

Walk and talks

The talk,

Her skinny legs move without a flaw

And her eyes shine even

First thing in the morning.

No one's

pretty

skinny

smart

good

enough these days

Where we break down everyone else

Just to claw our way up.

We starve

We slave

We run until our legs

Give out

Just to be good enough.

Once, we felt talented,

Now, we feel taunted

Haunted by simple words

That chip

Away

At our core.

She may not be quite as beautiful

Or quite as smart

Or quite as capable,

But she is strong

And she knows what is possible.

Dickinson titles, take 2

2010-12-05T00:52:00.001-05:00

I did this for an english assignment and had to analyze it. I really liked it for some reason, so I'm putting it on here. Tell me what you think.

Wild Nights, Wild Nights!
God is a distant, stately Lover –
I cannot live without You.
I’m Nobody! Who are You?
This is my Letter to the world –

Because I could not Stop for Death –
He preached upon “breadth” till it argued Him narrow.
This World is not Conclusion –
There’s a certain Slant of Light.

I dwell in possibility
Because I Could Not stop for death –
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
I never lost as much but twice
Wild nights, wild nights.

This is my letter to the World

I began with “Wild Nights, Wild Nights!” and left it all capitalized to illustrate a title, an opener that would set the scene and leave a reader interested to find out more, like what made the night “wild,” and who is involved? The next line answers ‘the who’ and ‘the why’ – the narrator has a love affair with God, and he is her caretaker. Her life depends on him and his guidance – without Him she is nobody; she has no physical identity to call her own. However, she questions his reliability to save her from her confusion over who she really is. “Nobody” and “You” are capitalized to show names, and to emphasize that the only character with a real name in the poem is God, and that the woman has nothing to call herself. She then says “this is my Letter,” a transition into her retelling of what happened during this wild night.
The narrator could not stop death from approaching. She was losing her physical self because she had already lost all sense of her identity, her mental being. “Stop” and “Death” are both capitalized because they are both out of her control and have more power over her. In the next line, He and Him are the only words capitalized, illustrating her dependence on her lover, and also following the way the Bible describes God. He argues, fights for her freedom from her daily struggles, proving that he is loyal to her and cares for her well-being.
“This World is not Conclusion” – her life does not end here, and the dash placed at the end of the line indicates that there is more to be said. Although she has given in to her death, she will go to heaven and be united with God again. The material world has concluded, but only opens up an entirely new spiritual world. This world is her certain slant in the light of the darkness of the wild night.
“I Could Not stop for death” is said a second time, this time with the emphasis on “could not.” Here the narrator officially admits her surrender, letting the reader know that this is what has happened and that she is no longer resisting. At this point, her life is a loaded gun, ready to release the bullet and fly into her new life on a different side. She “never lost as much but twice,” then “wild nights” is said twice. This stanza contains two repeated lines and words (stop for death and wild nights), both of them said twice. The narrator has two selves, the physical and the mental, and passes from the material world into the second world, which is the spiritual. Even though she has “lost” her life in the body, she moves on to where she will be happier. “Wild nights, wild nights” was an intimate, personal decision for her lover.
And finally, the poem ends in a single line, repeating the last line of the first stanza – “This is my letter to the World”, and this time the emphasis is on letter, not world. We have read her first letter, her explanation, and now we turn the attention to her World, her destination from one of confusion to one of happiness. Similar to Whitman’s poems, the line ends without a period, showing that this is not the end of her story.

Guilty pleasure

2010-12-04T20:07:00.001-05:00

There you go making me feel like a kid again.

Dickinson titles

2010-12-04T01:13:00.001-05:00

They shut me up in Prose—
I dwell in Possibility—
Because I could not Stop for Death—
My Life had Stood—a Loaded Gun—
I heard a fly buzz—when I died.

There’s a certain slant of Light
The Brain is wider than the sky—
This World is not a Conclusion
Much Madness is divinest sense—
This is my letter to the World—
Tell all the Truth but tell it Slant

Return

2010-11-19T22:03:00.002-05:00

You are the best thing

I never asked for.

Going to paradise, see you all in a week.

Light

2010-11-15T22:39:00.009-05:00

Ain't it funny how one thing can make your day better?
Things will pass. Things will go on. You will see happiness again, and your hard work will pay off.

Thank you for your help, you have no idea what it means to me.

"It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thank you.

Poker Face

2010-11-14T22:22:00.002-05:00

What I should be worrying about instead:

http://www.funlol.com/15926/Mature_people_truths.html

Come save me. Please?

Empty

2010-11-11T23:05:00.002-05:00

It's kind of strange that I wrote this before yesterday. But I wrote it, and I feel as though I should share it.

It's funny how we age. We grow older and lines scar our eyes where we once smiled, and as those lines increase, the lines on our brains deepen with things we have learned.
Your arms grow tired of embraces, and your legs grow tired of walking, of searching.
The spaces between your fingers have widened from holding so many others, and your fingers need rest.
It's funny how we learn. How we seemed so young, so innocent, so vulnerable just yesterday, a million chances we have yet to take and thousands of facts we have yet to discover.
With each day, we age, we learn, we survive. The earth has years of stories beneath its ever-changing surface, carved by mountains and rivers, tales that are waiting to be told.
But just because we age does not mean we are old, and just because we learn does not mean we are wise. We are never those qualities in our own eyes, but rather the eyes of others. You are not wise until you are told so, and we are not old until we compare with someone younger.
Age is not about a number, it's about the time you have had to learn. Wisdom is not about the standards of intelligence, it is about the experiences you have had, what you get out of them, and what you choose to do with them.
Intelligence should not be categorized by numbers, but rather your potential to teach.

End

2010-11-10T21:23:00.003-05:00

Death is a profound thing. It makes you feel and it makes you numb at the same time. You drive down the road and see the moon, only to realize he will never see the moon again. He will never see his son's game-winning goal or his daughter's tear soaked face as she drapes her body across his. Your heart aches and your mind races but you have no words to say, but nothing comes to your lips except an empty "I'm sorry."
It does not matter how many times you have visited their house or conversations you have had with them, your heart will always be bruised by their absence, an aching to bring them back for the sake of their family.
What were once laughs turn into choked gasps, struggles for air as your heart and mind collide in forming sounds.
Death is a profound thing.

John Hindle, know that although you have not directly impacted my life, your loss has affected hundreds if not thousands around you. Your family has provided some light in my life and know that we will always be thinking of you.

Stumble

2010-11-09T21:35:00.003-05:00

"Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.

I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks, the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.

I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will do irreparable harm.

Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires; shooting stars, falling objects."

-Pablo Neruda

There Is So Much More

2010-10-31T21:00:00.000-04:00

Dry my tears with your loving hands

2010-10-25T20:31:00.002-04:00

The seasons change every year.

It's just something that happens.

Isn't it funny how no one cares?

2010-10-11T22:55:00.003-04:00

Blah. I can't write. The end.
This is all I have for you.

A brick wall
That is the only thing in front of me,
Stretching for miles,
No way through, only up and
Over, if I can get myself over.
Suddenly something comes over me
And I swing at the wall,
Hoping to break
And bleed through this barrier.
Gasping for air,
My lungs threatening to collapse
Under my heaving breaths
And tired heart.
There seems to be no escape,
Only left here to perish.
And so you leave me alone to figure it out.

Comprehension

2010-10-05T22:31:00.005-04:00

feels like i'm living in silence

i feel like i'm disintegrating

so maybe i'll write something tomorrow

but isn't that what i always say?

Remember

2010-09-22T21:43:00.001-04:00

Yeah.

Decision

2010-09-19T22:11:00.002-04:00

Just so you know, this week is going to be busy as hell.

I have a lot of prioritizing to do and decision-making to do and research to at least start. Time feels like it's going so slowly and yet I already feel like I'm running out.

Today I was told something I had never heard before. I'm not sure how to interpret it. And it's ironic because it involves separation, which is what my mind is going through right now. Separation of opinions, choices, all of that.

After waiting my whole life to be "grown up" and to finally become a teenager, I honestly don't think I'm ready. I am becoming evermore aware of my dependencies on things, and on people. After wanting to leave home for so long, now all I want to be able to do is just come home.

Home is a strange concept (and now I'm just rambling...). What qualifies as home? Is it allowed to be called a home even if you are not able to go there all the time? Are home and family necessarily directly related? What qualifies as family?

I'm all over the place, my apologies.

Pause

2010-09-18T22:30:00.002-04:00

Hi. Sorry I didn't write anything yesterday. And I don't have much to say today except that today was great. A nice breather in the middle of some craziness. I'll write something better tomorrow, promise!

Overwhelmed

2010-09-16T23:12:00.002-04:00

I'm a little bit of everything right now. Sick, stressed, alive, tired, happy. Overall, I would say I'm satisfied.

I got what I asked for.

Comedy

2010-09-15T21:49:00.004-04:00

I always seem to say the words "isn't it funny" in blog posts. I don't know why, but that always seems to come up. Maybe I'll have some explanation later.

....Isn't it funny how some of us run around as a whirlwind of emotion, up one second and hitting the floor the next? And how we yearn for just a few moments of tranquility, a breather in the middle of this madness.

But once we get this break, we go crazy because this peacefulness is so unfamiliar, and we're itching to return to what is familiar.

I don't really like what society has made of us these days.

I think I have decided what I want to do. But I am too scared to go after it.

Ramblings

2010-09-14T22:44:00.004-04:00

As soon as I begin feeling burned out, there are those quiet fighters that will keep you going. When you're in cruise control. you tend to ignore them, their input usually insignificant. But when you need them there, they are there. And that's the best thing you never asked for.

I think it's crazy how fast six months can go by. How can you remain so close with someone for six months? Wouldn't you just grow tired of them, figure out exactly what they would say in response to this or that, know what they would say in response to any random question you might ask?

Nah.

That just makes everything better.

Isn't it funny that I gained and lost faith so many times that I eventually lost faith altogether? But you brought that back, and here we are now, still strong 180+ days later.

You bring light into my life every single day.

Honesty

2010-09-13T22:00:00.005-04:00

Jeez. They're not kidding when they say it's going to be the busiest year of your life.

I know, I know - I promised to update daily once school started, blah blah blah. That's not looking too promising. My original goal when I made this blog was to post every day and keep it for a year. Obviously I haven't been able to post daily but I'm still planning on keeping it until its anniversary.

For now, here is my renewed promise to you - although it may not be new writing, I promise to at least post every day. Whether it's a song, a picture, something, I'll try and keep this baby interesting. Deal?

Good.

See you tomorrow.

Farewell

2010-09-06T22:40:00.000-04:00

Color

2010-09-05T23:48:00.007-04:00

I feel like a lot of writing is....................... sad. And hey, sometimes mine is too. It's how I feel. But I am going to try to make my writing happy, hopeful, inspiring. Or at least, if it has to be sad, make it angry, easy to relate to, and humorous. Throw some good stuff in there I guess.

New York, although I was only there for a few hours, was a breath of fresh air. Although I don't really know if you can call New York air fresh. It was a brief taste of something different. Which apparently is what you need when you are not sure where to go, what to do, who to see.

So yeah. Oh hey and shout out to mah new followers. Thank you! I always enjoy feedback.

It is all a mask, you claim.

Your games are foolish and your life is silly,

All a work of your imagination.

You wear several layers of clothes

Just to protect your skin from the world -

Hiding your fingers with gloves

So you can still recognize their shape,

Watch them move

Before you but feel nothing.

You would never know,

Never even guess how much

You taught me,

Your subconscious lessons engraved in my mind,

Stuck to me

Like your stupid layers,

Unable to remove.

As I walked down this tired road,

Weary with thousands of footprints,

You were suddenly stripped away.

Your layers peeling

Off, leaving my skin cool.

And for the first time in years

I took off

My shoes

And felt the ground beneath my feet.

"The school system was invented by industrialists, and its only function was to train people to work in factories. When you slap on top of it standardized testing and No Child Left Behind, what you are left with is a system optimized for compliance - the opposite of what we need. What we need to teach is how to solve interesting problems." -Seth Godin

Commentary

2010-09-02T23:32:00.003-04:00

It's funny that as life goes on, time feels shorter. You have experienced more of it, you have tolerated its crazy mind games and manipulation. It can freeze you in your tracks and it can throw you around like a ragdoll.

"Summer's dead," "summer's over," "school starts soon..." yeah yeah yeah. We know. But school hasn't started yet. Why not live the hell out of your last few days? You are not going to want to look back at your summer and be like "shit, man. I wish we did something fucking crazy those last days."

So hey. Take these last few days, this final weekend, and go have some fun. I'll be in the big apple until late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, hopefully returning with a fresh mind and fresh ideas.

Do what you need to do to live.

Predictable

2010-09-02T23:31:00.000-04:00

Spur of the moment

2010-08-31T23:05:00.001-04:00

"Tell me something good."

".....we're alive."

Coffee shop romance

2010-08-30T22:58:00.004-04:00

I've come to the realization that my life is like a car being steered by a reckless driver; I'm either in cruise control or slamming on the brakes.

My mind's been swimmin',
But it sure feels like I'm drowning.
Please be my life jacket,
Wrap yourself around me and help me float.
Bring me back to shore,
Because in this panic,
I have lost
All sense of direction.
When I stop hearing,
Point out where I can heal.
And when I stop seeing,
Take my hand,
Whisper to me what to do.
And when I go numb,
Sing me a song to bring
Warmth back into my heart.
You can heal me,
But until you start trying,
I'll just sit here slowly falling apart.

Time off

2010-08-29T11:16:00.002-04:00

Do you ever find yourself connecting with someone on such a deep level, enough that you swear your thoughts, triumphs, and struggles are all in sync?

But yet, you have never even met this person?

It's crazy what the world does to us these days.

If you're losin your high then smoke again

2010-08-18T23:06:00.004-04:00

Future's lookin reeeeeeeeeeeeeal good.

Backbone

2010-08-18T16:18:00.003-04:00

Just wanted to say... I'm here for you.

Can you be there for me too?

Reverse psychology

2010-08-17T17:15:00.005-04:00

Twisted and turning,
Beginning to run didn't help
'Cause her footsteps only echoed,
Falsely forming the presence of another,
And so in turn
Her heart
Sprinted,
Outrunning her feet
Until it felt like bursting.
She stopped, her chest heaving
Like churning waves, but her mouth
Was as dry
As a desert.
A light flickered, momentarily
Seizing her attention, leaving behind
Her breathing
For a second.
The firefly lit up in front of
The streetlight
And for a moment they were identical,
Illuminated,
In unison,
Together painting a new dimension
Purely of light.
Absorbed in this world,
She shuts her eyes until
She sees spots, hoping that maybe
When she opens them again
She'll be home.
Day opened its young eyes first.
There is no sun, but I can see light on the horizon.

You thought I was kidding, I thought you were stupid.

2010-08-17T16:58:00.005-04:00

Walking, wandering, one day in the woods,
Sun spots like you see
In the movies, tracing closely, copying
The path I walked.
An old tree sat there.
Silent and simultaneously telling a thousand tales
With its scarred skin.
Peeling but still alive,
Reeling but at peace,
Feeling but out of touch
From the rest of us.
A ladder, never given life, led a path
Up the tree
But I couldn't see the top,
Craning my head like we did in
New York City, holding hands
And struggling to see
The sky.
But this forest is another kind
Of city,
Disintegrating instead of expanding.

Favor

2010-08-17T16:44:00.004-04:00

Hi. I think I owe some apologies!

As you most likely realized, I was gone for two weeks, heading to a place I once loved and thought I was going to feel lost in for the first time, but shortly after arriving I jumped right in and truly experienced the phrase "having the time of my life." And that was primarily thanks to all the wonderful people that I genuinely love now and cannot wait to see again.

So... mmhm. Yeah. Now I am at "home," fully launched into preseason, so needless to say I am a little busy. I wrote a lot today, so that might make up for some of it, but I can't make any guarantees that I will give you something new every day. But I promise promise promise to pick this up more once school starts!

And one last thing - a late happy 8-month birthday to this blog. Nine's coming up soon!

These bittersweet goodbyes they give,
A bad aftertaste in your heart.
But with their hands
And with their hearts
They will catch your tears,
Erase them but still leaving a trace -
A warm scar,
Reminding of you of this place you call home
And now leave behind,
Unsure but hopeful of return.
Your body departs
But your soul will forever stay
With the gently lapping waves
Of the lake,
And the whispers of Mattimuro.
Driving away,
You slip on sunglasses
To soften your stares on what is
Ahead. Your tears have dried
But that scar remains,
Still beating in your heart -
That place looks harsh out there, but you think
To yourself, reminded of next summer -
"I like the way the world looks behind these lenses."

Departure

2010-08-16T23:48:00.003-04:00

This morning, I woke up
Feelin brand new and I jumped up
Feelin my highs, and my lows
In my soul, and my goals
Just to stop smokin, and stop drinkin
And I've been thinkin - I've got my reasons
Just to get by, just to get by

I've lost all track of time

You've got me in circles

2010-08-14T22:46:00.003-04:00

Hey, my name is Carrie and I have cried ten times

in the past twenty-four hours.

So... the solution? Take me home again.

Where ya gonna go? Salvation is here.

Big Old Life - Philip Martz

2010-07-30T23:28:00.005-04:00

It's a big old life in a big old world with plenty of big quandaries. Choosing which gulf stream to follow in a northerly or southerly direction without a big old sign. Without a big old clock to tell the hour, it's a big old guess daily as to when to sleep or eat. The same with the tides that run at cross purposes, causing any number of big old tail swings, including the sight of a big old suitor who comes along to sweep one off one's feet, or push on one's tail. So that returning to the same old beach to make a big old nest,

is no big deal.

I am going to be gone for two weeks, and this is due to a place that I love and people that stand by me. Thank you to them as well for this opportunity, and helping me celebrate.

Thank you as well to my friends, family, and anyone who I have met in the past sixteen years. You have shaped me to be who I am today and I would not be the same without you. I love you so much and would be lost without your undying support.

Sixteen

2010-07-30T12:17:00.002-04:00

It's my birthday today!

The People Yes - Carl Sandburg

2010-07-27T23:58:00.001-04:00

The people yes
The people will live on.
The learning and blundering people will live on.
They will be tricked and sold and again sold
And go back to the nourishing earth for rootholds,
The people so peculiar in renewal and comeback,
You can't laugh off their capacity to take it.
The mammoth rests between his cyclonic dramas.

The people so often sleepy, weary, enigmatic,
is a vast huddle with many units saying:
"I earn my living.
I make enough to get by
and it takes all my time.
If I had more time
I could do more for myself
and maybe for others.
I could read and study
and talk things over
and find out about things.
It takes time.
I wish I had the time."

The people is a tragic and comic two-face: hero and hoodlum:
phantom and gorilla twisting to moan with a gargoyle mouth:
"They buy me and sell me...it's a game...sometime I'll
break loose..."

Once having marched
Over the margins of animal necessity,
Over the grim line of sheer subsistence
Then man came
To the deeper rituals of his bones,
To the lights lighter than any bones,
To the time for thinking things over,
To the dance, the song, the story,
Or the hours given over to dreaming,
Once having so marched.

Between the finite limitations of the five senses
and the endless yearnings of man for the beyond
the people hold to the humdrum bidding of work and food
while reaching out when it comes their way
for lights beyond the prison of the five senses,
for keepsakes lasting beyond any hunger or death.
This reaching is alive.
The panderers and liars have violated and smutted it.
Yet this reaching is alive yet
for lights and keepsakes.

The people know the salt of the sea
and the strength of the winds
lashing the corners of the earth.
The people take the earth
as a tomb of rest and a cradle of hope.
Who else speaks for the Family of Man?
They are in tune and step
with constellations of universal law.
The people is a polychrome,
a spectrum and a prism
held in a moving monolith,
a console organ of changing themes,
a clavilux of color poems
wherein the sea offers fog
and the fog moves off in rain
and the labrador sunset shortens
to a nocturne of clear stars
serene over the shot spray
of northern lights.

The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:

This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can't be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can't hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?

In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
"Where to? what next?"

Order

2010-07-27T23:30:00.003-04:00

Hello! A few things to tell all of you:

First off, I apologize for not writing much since I got back. My birthday is on Friday (!!!) and I leave for my job on Saturday for two weeks, and I only got back last Sunday... needless to say, I have had a lot of things to do and a lot of people to see. So sorry if you have been disappointed with the lack of updating here. I assure you this blog is still going!

Second, thank you so much for all the new followers! I started out with just one other reader, and now I know there are other people who can read this and hopefully it makes their day a little better.

Third, I really really do have some pieces of writing and stuff started, I have honestly just been too busy to get anywhere with them. I will try my best to get some done before I leave!

Thank you all again. You are the best!

So close

2010-07-27T23:28:00.003-04:00

"You mean the world to me, baby girl."

I keep reading that line over and over.

Home

2010-07-25T17:50:00.003-04:00

Just when I thought it couldn't get any better,

you made it a million times better than I could've imagined.

3 weeks.

More later!

Twenty eight

2010-07-18T13:10:00.000-04:00

Four weeks left.

Here we go, baby.

Updating just for you.

I miss you.

Thirty-seven

2010-07-09T12:45:00.002-04:00

So today I am leaving for about two and a half weeks to go HOME HOME HOME. Finally. Avon. I think we'll have a computer there but I don't know how much I'll be able to update because I'll be distracted by the beautiful ocean. Yayayay! See you all soon.

My Stupid Mouth

2010-07-08T17:21:00.001-04:00

Tuesday Tellings, week ?

2010-07-07T21:41:00.002-04:00

So I realized yesterday I forgot to post a Tuesday secret - but hey, it's summer, I'm losing track of the days. But anyway, this is my most recent confession; I'm going to hold off on the secrets. You've probably noticed they've been getting boring. They're running out of creativity, and I need some time to think of better ones for you. So this is for your own good... I guess.

Forty days

2010-07-06T23:05:00.004-04:00

Seriously, cut your fucking attitude and

come talk to me again when you have some respect.

Thanks.

You hear but you don't listen

2010-07-05T23:45:00.003-04:00

(hey hey hey)

Today was one of those days when you have way too much time to yourself and way too much time to think about things. And if you've met me for more than five minutes, you know I overanalzye pretty much everything.
So here's my question for you, some food for thought, the crazy quiz of the day - are you happier when you kind of push away all the negative, not necessarily getting rid of it but simply dismissing it, or are you happier if you just face the negatives, even if it brings you pain or sadness or whatever it might bring?
That's something I was thinking about.
Also, I really didn't want to post today because that means that the last post on this blog would go to the "next" page, and it was one of the poems I have written recently that I genuinely liked. You know, the majority of the time I just write on this. I rant. I don't really care what it says, I just write it and put it out there.

While on my nearly hour-long walk, I thought of a bunch of prompts but haven't managed to put them all together. I'll give you something tomorrow.

Today I felt, in a word..... frazzled.

Keep marching 'til your feet split open.

Illness

2010-07-03T23:45:00.003-04:00

Hi. I have a headache.

I could feel each individual blade
Of grass,
Cool, contrasting
With my warm skin,
Which you touched,
Sliding from my toes to my knees
And back again
As you sat behind me, my
Back on your chest and your arms
Barely rested on mine.
Let's pretend we're five again,
Watch the fireworks.
I'll look at you and
Watch them dance in your eyes.
I'll kiss you and
Realize I don't need to open my eyes
To see fireworks.

2010-07-02T13:50:00.002-04:00

"big hearts break easily"

Primero

2010-07-01T23:22:00.007-04:00

Well he's got another album out, and every song makes me think of you, of course. Any note of violin, a word of Jack's Mannequin and instantly my mind is flooded.

I thought you were worthless, absolutely worthless, you know?

No more important to me than the gum I spat out this morning, no more significant than the daily black coffee, just a routine of making and pouring. You were nothing, you see?

And yet you were everything, absolutely everything.

The reason my grades dropped, 'cause we were texting all the time. The reason I was off coffee, 'cause you gave me a buzz without the caffeine. The reason why when my phone rang a silly love song played. We were so stereotypical, you know that? I started my day with you, a brown paper bag always waiting in my locker with my favorite breakfast, except on Thursdays, but you knew that.

We knew each other's schedules backwards and forwards, and you promised if I ever needed someone, you would be there in a second.

But that was the mistake, can't you see? You were the reason I needed someone, but I had no one because you wanted to keep things a secret. I thought that was cute and mysterious, so I played along.

Yet you were there when I needed you most. And you were the best I could have asked for.

You broke me, but at the same time you shaped me. Your letters sit tucked away, but I know exactly where they are. When you ask how I am doing, you make my day without even trying.

You threw out my letters because we treated each other like shit, but I wish you still had them so you would know how much someone could care about you like I did.

I hope you meant every word, 'cause I was real every second with you.

You gave me everything I wanted, and showed me everything I feared.

You were nothing, absolutely nothing.

You were everything, absolutely everything.

And now you are stuck, and all I want to do is help you, but I don't think you want me to.

"There was this time when everything seemed to have come together. And so obviously it was time to go and screw it up."

Hey, thank you for making me feel though.

Milestone

2010-06-30T22:31:00.002-04:00

Post number two hundo, baybeeee.

Unfortunately I was sick today so I couldn't really write. But hey.

200 posts. That's a lot. Thanks to those of you have stuck around, if there even are any of you.

It's been fun.

Tuesday Tellings, week 17

2010-06-29T23:29:00.002-04:00

I'm scared you're lying.

I'm scared you're holding back.

But I don't know which one would be scarier if it were true.

I'm not in it to win it, I'm in it for you

2010-06-29T23:22:00.002-04:00

I can feel your warmth even over 2,048 miles.

There was the same time
Every day
That the sun came
To rest on the table,
Warming the clear glass,
Coating its wood surface.
One day
I was so sick of this routine
Seeing the same thing
Every day,
So I scratched the glass,
And it made a harsh noise
I swear, I swear.
It echoed with your voice
Still trapped in the room,
Isolated
From everything except
My presence,
Not willing to go anywhere.
Now your voice is gone
But the scratch lingers.

Breaking reflection

2010-06-28T23:41:00.008-04:00

I've been staring for far too long.

This mirror not only reflects the obvious -
Dust lingering on the glass,
Doubles so close,
A duplicate world
dlrow etacilpud A
That you can almost touch
All sight, no sound.
Take a picture
And you'll see
The brother flash,
But she won't dare take pictures
'Cause she doesn't feel
She doesn't feel beautiful enough.
She's been handed so much time to overcome -
Overcome what?
Overcome all those obstacles
That she has left silent,
That she has left in the battlefield for so long,
Left bloody and bruised but certainly still alive.
She just runs by it
'Cause she doesn't feel
She doesn't feel strong enough.
One day she was running,
The star on the necklace
Her father gave her softly
Hitting her chest
As a reminder
That he is always there
That he is always there
Even if she runs away
'Cause she doesn't feel
She doesn't feel good enough.
She was running
And she halted 'cause there was
There was a stranger standing there quietly,
A stranger who asked a question that froze
Her world momentarily,
A stranger who asked the question,
"Why do you run?"
And she was
Frozen
For just a second,
But she said "to break the mirror.
To step on all the people that made me feel."
Then she kept running.

Response

2010-06-28T10:04:00.002-04:00

Love this

Lucky number seven

2010-06-27T22:58:00.004-04:00

Seven dollar dinner.
Seven hours in the sun.
Seven weeks left until you come home.
Seven months of blogging as of today.

Strange how time goes by, isn't it?
I've been redundant lately. My apologies.

Yesterday as I stared out the window
I noticed the shadow
Stayed still,
Stagnant,
While everything else flew by.
Trees, insignificant signs, broken
Down cars.
Choose to slow it down
If you will
Unless you're eager to get
To where you want to be.
The scene changes
The location changes
But it is always a destination.

Take notes

2010-06-26T23:38:00.003-04:00

Flight.

Learning

2010-06-26T00:18:00.007-04:00

I'm learning to approach this.
I'm learning to process this.
I'm learning to accept this.
I'm learning to live with this.
I'm learning to go along with this.
I'm learning to have fun with this.

I'm learning to enjoy this.

This too shall pass

2010-06-23T19:15:00.002-04:00

(Persian:این نیز بگذرد, een niz bogzarad, Hebrew: גם זה יעבור, gam zeh yaavor, Turkish: Bu da geçer)

A proverb, indicating that all material conditions, positive or negative, are temporary. The phrase seems to have originated in the writings of the medieval Persian Sufi poets, and is often attached to a fable of a great king who is humbled by the simple words. Some versions of the fable, beginning with that of Attar of Nishapur, add the detail that the phrase is inscribed on a ring, which therefore has the ability to make the happy man sad and the sad man happy.

Continued

2010-06-22T23:25:00.005-04:00

Things work out one way or the other; you win or you lose.
And you can't win all the time, you just have to face it.

So here's the poem I promised you:

Since you parked on that corner,
No one has dared
Touch that spot.
It was where you held my hand,
And time seemed to
Stop
While the rain continued
To fall.
3 A.M., and the thunderstorms
Start, not unlike
The night you dropped me off,
Echoing
Echoing
Echoing
The threatening raindrops.
On my bed that sweater
Patiently waited, listened to the old clock's tales.
The article of clothing
Was once a
New gift,
But its fibers
No longer hold your smell,
Instead contain tears
Drying from my tired face
Only to be replenished soon after.
You say
"Don't cry my girl,
I'll be home soon."
But it all seems to be
A misunderstanding.
Your absence,
Their absence,
My absence.

Just because the road looks long doesn't mean there's not an end.