You make me feel so silent sometimes.
My voice is breaking in your hands.
I feel you gripping it so tight, and I can't make you understand, I
need your fingers to loosen, I need to confess to your crimes.
Hold my heart as tightly as you want, but let it have it's say.
The deeper that your fingers dig, the more I begin to fray.
I can't sing a song into your heart when my voice is held in chains.
You make me feel like a horse being led to a cliff when you hold the reins.
Hold my heart as tightly as you please, but let it hold yours too.
I feel as though the tighter I hold it,
the more my fingers slip right through.
You make me feel so silent sometimes,
like I've been sucked dry of sound.
Hold my heart as tightly as you like, but don't hold it just to hear it pound.
Don't hold it just to hear it pound.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Just a thought
I always wish I were someone else. But not in the way that I feel everyone else does, when they want to life the life of a celebrity or royalty or even a wealthy businessman. I want to just re-do myself altogether; my mind, my heart, my soul, my blood, organs and bones. I want to just de-construct myself and my life and rewind everything to a point in time that I can grow into something and someone different, so that I end up as someone completely opposite from myself, in some completely opposite life. I think that wish rings through me at least twice a day if not more, and that maybe it’s why I never really feel like myself at all, because every ounce of the day I’m fighting back all that is truly me.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Yes, I actually have a completed short story lol
Please read and comment :D
The Bus Driver
The sky was gray, not a boring or dull gray like the fur of a cat or the blade of a shovel, but a steely fresh gray like a pair of inquisitive eyes or the shine of a new knife. Such thoughts seemed too detailed to Rosa for where she was and what she was doing, the same thing that she did each morning afternoon and evening. The bus lurched forward with each mile and moaned something that resembled a yawn at each stop, as she opened the door to let in another flock of lives that she could only ponder and guess at.
She liked to look in her mirror at those lives, so quiet except for the teenagers. They’d stand out like color in an old foreign film, animated and loud with a obvious disregard for the silent thinking people surrounding them. It was those people that interested her the most, she wondered what really separated them from the vibrant youth; too much time lived? Too many things seen? Or perhaps they were like her; sitting, wondering in repose of the life they dreamed of when they too were loud and colorful and blissfully ignorant. Only to find that ten, twenty years later that the color has faded and they are instead living lives that are dreary and difficult and altogether boring in order to continue living at all.
The bus trembled to a stop once again and she passed out transfer slips and watched money being dropped into the dark abyss that swallowed handfuls of change.
She sighed and again pushed the bus forward on its city course and again looked up into her mirror to stare at the fresh batch of lives she’d let on. They were mostly made up of the elderly as usual, the white haired ladies sitting with their purses held tight and their legs crossed. They’d smile politely when they’d look up, and smile wider if a small child decided to look their way for a brief moment, their tiny eyes staring at the wrinkled leather of the women’s faces, in awe as if they suddenly understood that this would be their future as well.
The old men weren’t quite as kind looking, gruff and slightly unshaven; they looked at the children with distaste and annoyance. Rosa could almost hear their thoughts of how fortunate the youngsters were without knowing it and how the young take their youth for granted. She believed the reason was that the men remembered a time when they had cars and jobs and women and now that those things had faded into the past, they looked upon those that one day would have all that they lost as all too lucky and undeserving.
Rosa stopped the bus again, feeling the day become more and more mundane did nothing for her mood and she scowled at the mismatched lives that stepped on the bus in exchange for many of the elderly. She later regretted it, they’d done nothing wrong to her and they looked just as jaded as she felt. The day was hitting her brain like rain; slow and steady and predictable, it made Rosa wish for hail, wish for lightening, something sporadic and slightly dangerous to break through the dull monotony. Then, oddly enough, it began to actually rain, the drops hitting the windows of the bus as slow and wearisome as the figurative ones in her head. They stayed that way too, no hail, no lightening, just slow falling water. She imagined she was one of the drops falling to the Earth, and the bus again shuddered to a stop, the lives on it trickling out like water into the gutter. She moved to her focus away from herself and back to the large round mirror above her, staring hard into the eyes of the new lives behind her, searching to see if somehow a spark might lay in one of the many pairs. She began looking almost feverishly for someone without the same dull and soulless stare that she’d grown so used to seeing. Then, there it was, a woman with a bright floral dress and a large shopping bag, her hair was curled with a large yellow flower holding back her bangs, almost enveloping her entire head. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties and normally she would have probably have blended in with all the other lives on a bright street, an ant in a colony, a speck among specks, she wouldn’t have shown any more vibrant than any other. But here in the gloomy gray and blue of the bus among the gloomy gray and blue lives surrounding her, she sparkled. Her smile was large and genuine, her eyes large and bright, and a slight peculiar-ness Rosa couldn’t put her finger on. This woman sat up front ready to be spoken to, ready for absolutely anything, her life it seemed was a diamond among the coal she’d chosen to ride with and it made Rosa wonder why she was riding the bus at all.
“It’s lovely today, isn’t it?” The woman spoke suddenly, making Rosa leap slightly from her thoughts and the bus swerve lightly to the left. She re-situated herself and got the bus back on track before cautiously responding, “Yes, I’m surprised someone else thinks so though, I thought I was the only one odd enough to love wet, chilly days like this.” She laughed mildly, waiting for a response.
“No, I love this weather, there’s something so fragile and magical about the world after a cold rain, you can feel it and smell it, like everything’s new again and you can start fresh.” Rosa smiled, it was nice to have someone share her point of view, it was nice to have someone to speak to at all. As if the woman could read her thoughts she spoke up again, “You don’t get many people trying to start conversations do you?” “I noticed you’re rather quiet on your routes.”
The question startled her, “You’ve been on my bus before?” “I would have thought I’d have noticed you.” The woman smiled, “I’m not always very loud myself, and in my experience sometimes we only see what we are searching for.” Rosa thought about this for a moment, the conversation was drifting into uncomfortably personal, and yet she didn’t want it to stop just yet.
“I suppose that’s true, but why would I be searching for anything?”
The woman smiled wider, “I think only you can answer that question.”
Rosa stared at the woman for a moment pondering another response before bringing the bus to another stop, but was slightly crestfallen to see the woman rise to get off. She touched Rosa’s shoulder lightly as she stood, “I hope you figure it out, it was nice talking to you,” she smiled wide at Rosa, without a note of sarcasm or awkwardness in her voice, an odd thing to find these days, before she reached down under her seat. It was then that Rosa realized what had been odd about her eyes as the woman took hold of the dog Rosa had failed to notice laying beneath her seat, she was blind.“But, how did you know that you’d been on my bus before?
The woman took a step off the bus and replied, “I could feel your presence, you always feel sad, you should change that.”
Rosa took a deep breath and tried to find her words, “It was nice talking to you too.” She whispered before closing the doors and continuing on her route. The rest of the day went as usual, more stops, more lives, but most of them were as gray as the sky. Rosa had noticed a long time ago how when each person got on that they went out of their way to find a seat unoccupied by anyone else, so that by the end of the day each person was seated alone by the window or standing, very rarely would anyone sit next to a stranger. It was as if the whole world was secretly made of recluses and that it took a task as simple as finding a seat on the bus to reveal that part of their personality. That when strangers were brought together in a confined space, the entire world became as shy as she was. Strangely enough, it usually made her feel less alone, however today, it only made her feel more so. She almost wanted to bring the bus to a sudden stop out of nowhere and shake each and every life into a seat occupied by another that they had never encountered and in doing so, perhaps rub some of that same light the blind woman had rubbed into her, into everyone else. That in introducing one life into another that she might introduce a new chance at life itself.
But instead she kept to her route, kept to each stop until finally the end of the day arrived and she could made her final stop, home. The woman never left her mind neither did any of the other lives. The children with the potential to be as bright and colorful or dismal and gray as the adults that raised them, the elderly whose chance to shine had already passed and her own life. So monotonous and mundane that she began to think that perhaps the woman was not the one who was blind at all, but that maybe every other life that had stepped onto her bus, including hers, were the eyes that had been stolen. Her mind was exhausted from the excessive flow of thoughts the day had brought as she made herself a cup of tea, before climbing into bed and turning on the television to check the next day’s weather before she went to sleep.
“Looks like there’s more rain tomorrow,” she noted to herself before laying her head down on her pillow, imagining again that she was one of the drops of rain falling to the Earth, and making it new.
The Bus Driver
The sky was gray, not a boring or dull gray like the fur of a cat or the blade of a shovel, but a steely fresh gray like a pair of inquisitive eyes or the shine of a new knife. Such thoughts seemed too detailed to Rosa for where she was and what she was doing, the same thing that she did each morning afternoon and evening. The bus lurched forward with each mile and moaned something that resembled a yawn at each stop, as she opened the door to let in another flock of lives that she could only ponder and guess at.
She liked to look in her mirror at those lives, so quiet except for the teenagers. They’d stand out like color in an old foreign film, animated and loud with a obvious disregard for the silent thinking people surrounding them. It was those people that interested her the most, she wondered what really separated them from the vibrant youth; too much time lived? Too many things seen? Or perhaps they were like her; sitting, wondering in repose of the life they dreamed of when they too were loud and colorful and blissfully ignorant. Only to find that ten, twenty years later that the color has faded and they are instead living lives that are dreary and difficult and altogether boring in order to continue living at all.
The bus trembled to a stop once again and she passed out transfer slips and watched money being dropped into the dark abyss that swallowed handfuls of change.
She sighed and again pushed the bus forward on its city course and again looked up into her mirror to stare at the fresh batch of lives she’d let on. They were mostly made up of the elderly as usual, the white haired ladies sitting with their purses held tight and their legs crossed. They’d smile politely when they’d look up, and smile wider if a small child decided to look their way for a brief moment, their tiny eyes staring at the wrinkled leather of the women’s faces, in awe as if they suddenly understood that this would be their future as well.
The old men weren’t quite as kind looking, gruff and slightly unshaven; they looked at the children with distaste and annoyance. Rosa could almost hear their thoughts of how fortunate the youngsters were without knowing it and how the young take their youth for granted. She believed the reason was that the men remembered a time when they had cars and jobs and women and now that those things had faded into the past, they looked upon those that one day would have all that they lost as all too lucky and undeserving.
Rosa stopped the bus again, feeling the day become more and more mundane did nothing for her mood and she scowled at the mismatched lives that stepped on the bus in exchange for many of the elderly. She later regretted it, they’d done nothing wrong to her and they looked just as jaded as she felt. The day was hitting her brain like rain; slow and steady and predictable, it made Rosa wish for hail, wish for lightening, something sporadic and slightly dangerous to break through the dull monotony. Then, oddly enough, it began to actually rain, the drops hitting the windows of the bus as slow and wearisome as the figurative ones in her head. They stayed that way too, no hail, no lightening, just slow falling water. She imagined she was one of the drops falling to the Earth, and the bus again shuddered to a stop, the lives on it trickling out like water into the gutter. She moved to her focus away from herself and back to the large round mirror above her, staring hard into the eyes of the new lives behind her, searching to see if somehow a spark might lay in one of the many pairs. She began looking almost feverishly for someone without the same dull and soulless stare that she’d grown so used to seeing. Then, there it was, a woman with a bright floral dress and a large shopping bag, her hair was curled with a large yellow flower holding back her bangs, almost enveloping her entire head. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties and normally she would have probably have blended in with all the other lives on a bright street, an ant in a colony, a speck among specks, she wouldn’t have shown any more vibrant than any other. But here in the gloomy gray and blue of the bus among the gloomy gray and blue lives surrounding her, she sparkled. Her smile was large and genuine, her eyes large and bright, and a slight peculiar-ness Rosa couldn’t put her finger on. This woman sat up front ready to be spoken to, ready for absolutely anything, her life it seemed was a diamond among the coal she’d chosen to ride with and it made Rosa wonder why she was riding the bus at all.
“It’s lovely today, isn’t it?” The woman spoke suddenly, making Rosa leap slightly from her thoughts and the bus swerve lightly to the left. She re-situated herself and got the bus back on track before cautiously responding, “Yes, I’m surprised someone else thinks so though, I thought I was the only one odd enough to love wet, chilly days like this.” She laughed mildly, waiting for a response.
“No, I love this weather, there’s something so fragile and magical about the world after a cold rain, you can feel it and smell it, like everything’s new again and you can start fresh.” Rosa smiled, it was nice to have someone share her point of view, it was nice to have someone to speak to at all. As if the woman could read her thoughts she spoke up again, “You don’t get many people trying to start conversations do you?” “I noticed you’re rather quiet on your routes.”
The question startled her, “You’ve been on my bus before?” “I would have thought I’d have noticed you.” The woman smiled, “I’m not always very loud myself, and in my experience sometimes we only see what we are searching for.” Rosa thought about this for a moment, the conversation was drifting into uncomfortably personal, and yet she didn’t want it to stop just yet.
“I suppose that’s true, but why would I be searching for anything?”
The woman smiled wider, “I think only you can answer that question.”
Rosa stared at the woman for a moment pondering another response before bringing the bus to another stop, but was slightly crestfallen to see the woman rise to get off. She touched Rosa’s shoulder lightly as she stood, “I hope you figure it out, it was nice talking to you,” she smiled wide at Rosa, without a note of sarcasm or awkwardness in her voice, an odd thing to find these days, before she reached down under her seat. It was then that Rosa realized what had been odd about her eyes as the woman took hold of the dog Rosa had failed to notice laying beneath her seat, she was blind.“But, how did you know that you’d been on my bus before?
The woman took a step off the bus and replied, “I could feel your presence, you always feel sad, you should change that.”
Rosa took a deep breath and tried to find her words, “It was nice talking to you too.” She whispered before closing the doors and continuing on her route. The rest of the day went as usual, more stops, more lives, but most of them were as gray as the sky. Rosa had noticed a long time ago how when each person got on that they went out of their way to find a seat unoccupied by anyone else, so that by the end of the day each person was seated alone by the window or standing, very rarely would anyone sit next to a stranger. It was as if the whole world was secretly made of recluses and that it took a task as simple as finding a seat on the bus to reveal that part of their personality. That when strangers were brought together in a confined space, the entire world became as shy as she was. Strangely enough, it usually made her feel less alone, however today, it only made her feel more so. She almost wanted to bring the bus to a sudden stop out of nowhere and shake each and every life into a seat occupied by another that they had never encountered and in doing so, perhaps rub some of that same light the blind woman had rubbed into her, into everyone else. That in introducing one life into another that she might introduce a new chance at life itself.
But instead she kept to her route, kept to each stop until finally the end of the day arrived and she could made her final stop, home. The woman never left her mind neither did any of the other lives. The children with the potential to be as bright and colorful or dismal and gray as the adults that raised them, the elderly whose chance to shine had already passed and her own life. So monotonous and mundane that she began to think that perhaps the woman was not the one who was blind at all, but that maybe every other life that had stepped onto her bus, including hers, were the eyes that had been stolen. Her mind was exhausted from the excessive flow of thoughts the day had brought as she made herself a cup of tea, before climbing into bed and turning on the television to check the next day’s weather before she went to sleep.
“Looks like there’s more rain tomorrow,” she noted to herself before laying her head down on her pillow, imagining again that she was one of the drops of rain falling to the Earth, and making it new.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Fear's Consequence
A very accurate view of how I feel lately.
She woke up in a cage.
She thought she had been running.
Through tall grass, so high, the sky was seen in slivers.
She felt her body, shoulders, stomach, arms, legs and all
Those forbidden places in between.
But they weren’t hers anymore.
The earth had caged her in it’s bosom, and she could no longer run.
Circumstance had held her with iron bars, a prison of comfort and ease.
And now the sky that was once slivers through reeds that reached the sky,
Was instead seen through cracks in hard metal.
She woke up in a cage.
She thought she was flying, on wings made of feathers woven with gold.
So high in the sky that the world below was hardly noticed at all.
She felt her mind, thoughts, images, wishes, dreams, and all those forbidden places in between.
But they weren’t hers anymore.
Her life had led her into a trap without escape.
A maze without an exit, that she welcomed to wander, that she detested with her entire heart.
With each moment she screeched and struggled and fought.
And each thought she felt had once been real, and each freedom she’d lived a thousand times
But only in her mind.
It was never hers.
She woke up in a cage.
A cage forged with fear and the pressure to please a world before herself.
A fortress to keep her from the very thing she was to afraid to want, to need.
The live free.
She woke up in a cage.
She thought she had been running.
Through tall grass, so high, the sky was seen in slivers.
She felt her body, shoulders, stomach, arms, legs and all
Those forbidden places in between.
But they weren’t hers anymore.
The earth had caged her in it’s bosom, and she could no longer run.
Circumstance had held her with iron bars, a prison of comfort and ease.
And now the sky that was once slivers through reeds that reached the sky,
Was instead seen through cracks in hard metal.
She woke up in a cage.
She thought she was flying, on wings made of feathers woven with gold.
So high in the sky that the world below was hardly noticed at all.
She felt her mind, thoughts, images, wishes, dreams, and all those forbidden places in between.
But they weren’t hers anymore.
Her life had led her into a trap without escape.
A maze without an exit, that she welcomed to wander, that she detested with her entire heart.
With each moment she screeched and struggled and fought.
And each thought she felt had once been real, and each freedom she’d lived a thousand times
But only in her mind.
It was never hers.
She woke up in a cage.
A cage forged with fear and the pressure to please a world before herself.
A fortress to keep her from the very thing she was to afraid to want, to need.
The live free.
I have to get back on track >_>
I'm so far off track it's ridiculous. I need to re-begin my stupid diet, I need to start calling places for jobs, I need to get on my license, I need to read again, breathe again, live again. I feel like my current state is all my fault...I don't feel like i'm living, only that i'm existing. The one thing I never wanted for myself. I feel as though all of the passion I once had has completely leaked out of my body into a massive puddle somewhere. And all I want now is to find that puddle and find a way to jump into it again, I feel so drained of life. I feel like a job and a car would help, but then I ask myself..would it? Or would I just find another excuse to do nothing again. Will I end up just like my father? A product of my own low self esteem and laziness, sitting in the same spot day after day wishing for a better life as I am doing now? I'm terrified of that...i'm wondering how to push past my genes into being the person I so dearly want to be, a person in charge of herself, a person unafraid to do anything, anything at all in order to achieve her dreams, a person with freedom coursing through her veins instead of stagnant blood. Stagnant. That's a very accurate word for my life right now, somehow I need to set it into motion. Somehow.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Real
I wonder some days what would make me a real person.
A human being made of more than just flesh and blood and bone
but of something far more substantial.
A spirit full of passion, full of life.
Music running in her veins, melodic, triumphant, aching, perfect.
Though no perfection exists in the souls of real people, I do believe
that to be considered real, that perfection must at least be
constant.
Constantly trying to manifest itself in a long enduring struggle.
A struggle against steel ropes, and small cages, the ability to walk
but never stand.
I wonder some moments what could make me a real person.
If I were to travel long roads with strange people and do things
that I could never allow myself to do?
Find ways to breathe, to touch, to taste that I could never explain to
my own body.
I wonder often if perhaps I was once a real person.
When my heart was still a child, unclouded by responsibility or weariness.
Unchanged by a jaded existence.
When my mind, blood, flesh, and soul all lived for a purpose greater
than to simply stay alive.
And then I wonder what price I'd pay to feel real once more.
A human being made of more than just flesh and blood and bone
but of something far more substantial.
A spirit full of passion, full of life.
Music running in her veins, melodic, triumphant, aching, perfect.
Though no perfection exists in the souls of real people, I do believe
that to be considered real, that perfection must at least be
constant.
Constantly trying to manifest itself in a long enduring struggle.
A struggle against steel ropes, and small cages, the ability to walk
but never stand.
I wonder some moments what could make me a real person.
If I were to travel long roads with strange people and do things
that I could never allow myself to do?
Find ways to breathe, to touch, to taste that I could never explain to
my own body.
I wonder often if perhaps I was once a real person.
When my heart was still a child, unclouded by responsibility or weariness.
Unchanged by a jaded existence.
When my mind, blood, flesh, and soul all lived for a purpose greater
than to simply stay alive.
And then I wonder what price I'd pay to feel real once more.
Monday, June 20, 2011
A daughter's heart
This hole in my stomach runs so deep that I could fall through it
and never touch the bottom.
The ground I tread lightly on my toes feels like broken glass.
I've been picking slivers out of my skin since I learned to take a step.
Every time I put my hands up to be held you drop me on the ground,
and every time I call out for help you quiet my mouth.
Somewhere in my brain there's a place where memories always stay
and even when everything has changed they're locked in
a secret, faded place.
Somewhere in there, in the safe I've locked a father that cared and watched
his daughter with a smile.
I can faintly tell that at one time you didn't yell at me for every spill
and every slip.
I can almost see in my memory a little girl who's best friend was her Daddy.
But she grew older and you grew sad, and we forgot how to speak.
Every time I try to tell you who I am, your ears, they're fast asleep.
Every time that I try to be close again, you push me far out of your life.
But you grow older, and I grow sad, and slowly I stop trying Dad.
And I hope one day when a child is mine, that her father will hold her every time
she puts her hands up to be held.
And that he will come running to her side when she calls out for help,
and that when she is old enough to tell him who she is,
that he already knows.
You were the first man to ever break my heart,
and I hope someday my daughter never knows what it's like
to grow and watch her father fade into the dark.
But I open up my memories and Daddy their you are,
and even after all the pain, and after all the scars,
you'll never leave this broken daughter's heart.
I was feeling sad on Fathers day, I love my Dad, but I wish I could remove his bitterness and make him the father he was to me when I was small...
and never touch the bottom.
The ground I tread lightly on my toes feels like broken glass.
I've been picking slivers out of my skin since I learned to take a step.
Every time I put my hands up to be held you drop me on the ground,
and every time I call out for help you quiet my mouth.
Somewhere in my brain there's a place where memories always stay
and even when everything has changed they're locked in
a secret, faded place.
Somewhere in there, in the safe I've locked a father that cared and watched
his daughter with a smile.
I can faintly tell that at one time you didn't yell at me for every spill
and every slip.
I can almost see in my memory a little girl who's best friend was her Daddy.
But she grew older and you grew sad, and we forgot how to speak.
Every time I try to tell you who I am, your ears, they're fast asleep.
Every time that I try to be close again, you push me far out of your life.
But you grow older, and I grow sad, and slowly I stop trying Dad.
And I hope one day when a child is mine, that her father will hold her every time
she puts her hands up to be held.
And that he will come running to her side when she calls out for help,
and that when she is old enough to tell him who she is,
that he already knows.
You were the first man to ever break my heart,
and I hope someday my daughter never knows what it's like
to grow and watch her father fade into the dark.
But I open up my memories and Daddy their you are,
and even after all the pain, and after all the scars,
you'll never leave this broken daughter's heart.
I was feeling sad on Fathers day, I love my Dad, but I wish I could remove his bitterness and make him the father he was to me when I was small...
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Dear me.
Dear 15 year old self,
I know you so well and yet I also forget you entirely. You have so many dreams and assumptions, and you will lose them all. Perhaps lose is too harsh a word, maybe "loosen your grip on" might be better. I know how badly you want to stay young and how torn you are between that and the fact that deep down you know that life will be better when you're older, because once you're an adult the world will be easier, that people will take you seriously, that you will be able to do and go wherever you want. I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry honey, but none of that is true. I'm 20 today, 21 in four months and nothing is easier, no one takes me seriously, I can't go anywhere outside of this terrible town. I remember being your age, I had more of a life then than I do now. Some of it's my own fault, but honestly a lot of it is out of my control, so if I could give you any advice, do well in school, get your license early, keep your Target job at seventeen, figure out early who you're real friends are and hold them with an iron grip, research career paths for thoroughly, and most importantly...
...enjoy every single moment that you're not an adult.
I know you so well and yet I also forget you entirely. You have so many dreams and assumptions, and you will lose them all. Perhaps lose is too harsh a word, maybe "loosen your grip on" might be better. I know how badly you want to stay young and how torn you are between that and the fact that deep down you know that life will be better when you're older, because once you're an adult the world will be easier, that people will take you seriously, that you will be able to do and go wherever you want. I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry honey, but none of that is true. I'm 20 today, 21 in four months and nothing is easier, no one takes me seriously, I can't go anywhere outside of this terrible town. I remember being your age, I had more of a life then than I do now. Some of it's my own fault, but honestly a lot of it is out of my control, so if I could give you any advice, do well in school, get your license early, keep your Target job at seventeen, figure out early who you're real friends are and hold them with an iron grip, research career paths for thoroughly, and most importantly...
...enjoy every single moment that you're not an adult.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
New short story in the works :]
So yeah, I'm trying to at least get some writing done this summer, so I'm starting a short story that's been in my head for a loonng time lol. Very sad story, but I like what little I have so far, constructive critcism-or compliments lol >_<-are very welcome.
Human...
By Danielle Marie Porter
Part one: Found
I see a lot of death. It's part of my profession..ok..it is my profession. I'm a coroner for the city of Los Angeles, which I guess means I see a lot more death than many others in the same profession. Here, you see it every day, multiple times a day, many times in the same exact areas. I have grown a thin coating of apathy and indifference on my skin in the ten years since I started my job...but still...it's mornings like this that I remember the coating can slide away and I realize I'm still human, as human as each one of them.
I can't help but stare at her, she's one of the dirtiest people I've ever seen. The grime so thick on her tight skin that I can only slightly see how pale she really is. Peeking out from the dirt are blotches of porcelain skin, almost blue with pallidness. Her hair is a wonder as well...thin as well as coarse, rough, rope like strands clinging to her scalp for dear life. She looks like she's been laying here for awhile, at least a few weeks until finally someone walking by noticed her behind the trash bin and called the police. They admitted that at first they thought she was simply another transient sleeping out the day...until they smelled it...the putrid sting of death that crawls up into a person's nose and never really leaves, a smell I hardly notice anymore. I should be used to this by now, we find hundreds of the homeless dead every month, but there's something about this girl that just makes my heart weep and my legs weak.
I want to go up to her and shake her until she wakes up, take her home, make her a meal, give her a blanket...anything but load her into a bag and zip it closed over her weary and haggard face. I think perhaps it's her youth that eats at me so badly, under the filth and decomposition I can see such a young, unlined face. If I had to guess I couldn't picture the girl more than twenty years old, and again it's not as if she's the first young person I've ever picked up, but there's just something different this time, like somehow she is still in the air, watching me load her into my truck, with a sadness in her eyes I could never comprehend, and drive away. For the first time in a long time I want to say sorry for something I didn't do.
Human...
By Danielle Marie Porter
Part one: Found
I see a lot of death. It's part of my profession..ok..it is my profession. I'm a coroner for the city of Los Angeles, which I guess means I see a lot more death than many others in the same profession. Here, you see it every day, multiple times a day, many times in the same exact areas. I have grown a thin coating of apathy and indifference on my skin in the ten years since I started my job...but still...it's mornings like this that I remember the coating can slide away and I realize I'm still human, as human as each one of them.
I can't help but stare at her, she's one of the dirtiest people I've ever seen. The grime so thick on her tight skin that I can only slightly see how pale she really is. Peeking out from the dirt are blotches of porcelain skin, almost blue with pallidness. Her hair is a wonder as well...thin as well as coarse, rough, rope like strands clinging to her scalp for dear life. She looks like she's been laying here for awhile, at least a few weeks until finally someone walking by noticed her behind the trash bin and called the police. They admitted that at first they thought she was simply another transient sleeping out the day...until they smelled it...the putrid sting of death that crawls up into a person's nose and never really leaves, a smell I hardly notice anymore. I should be used to this by now, we find hundreds of the homeless dead every month, but there's something about this girl that just makes my heart weep and my legs weak.
I want to go up to her and shake her until she wakes up, take her home, make her a meal, give her a blanket...anything but load her into a bag and zip it closed over her weary and haggard face. I think perhaps it's her youth that eats at me so badly, under the filth and decomposition I can see such a young, unlined face. If I had to guess I couldn't picture the girl more than twenty years old, and again it's not as if she's the first young person I've ever picked up, but there's just something different this time, like somehow she is still in the air, watching me load her into my truck, with a sadness in her eyes I could never comprehend, and drive away. For the first time in a long time I want to say sorry for something I didn't do.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The child in me...
It's funny, when I try to look backwards in my mind to even two years ago, it feels fuzzy. All those times I had with friends...It's like if you knew when the last time you did something would be you'd cherish more, you'd make fireworks and a banner and have a parade to mark that day in your mind so that you'd never forget it. But that's just not how life works, that last time comes and goes and suddenly after some time has passed you try to remember when it was...and you can't. I knew at the time that none of those times would last forever, and yet I still felt down deep in my heart that somehow there was no way they would ever change. I've been dealing with different bouts of nostalgia for awhile now...since I graduated High School I suppose. Some people deal with the realization that they are indeed adults very well, and then other people like myself..accept it, embrace it, but at the same time fight it with every molecule in our bodies. There are portions of adulthood that I love; more freedom, the ability to make decisions that I couldn't before.
But other than that I miss being a kid. I was never the kid who couldn't wait to grow up, I knew how good I had it and I was determined to keep it that way, I don't think I took the full advantage of my childhood but still...it was less stressful, that's for sure. I didn't think so at the time, but what kid does? Now I feel the weight of the world and my own mortality pressing down on my shoulders like never before, because I know now that it's a landslide from here, and will just continue to go faster. With age brings excitement, wisdom, but also ultimately death. I also come to the realization day in and day out that I can't go back, I can never again be that child I once was, it seems like a simple fact but to me, the idea of "never again" puts a sharp pain in my heart. I feel as though I do everything now not because I necessarily want to, but because I figure it's what I must do, and that as an adult I have to do what I must to move forward.
I've always been resistant to change, I guess that's one thing I may never outgrow. I'm the person who loves to be comfortable but hates consistency; a true contradiction. I want to at least, keep some part of the child I was inside me, to keep all the different varieties of normal I've experienced somewhere in my mind...
But other than that I miss being a kid. I was never the kid who couldn't wait to grow up, I knew how good I had it and I was determined to keep it that way, I don't think I took the full advantage of my childhood but still...it was less stressful, that's for sure. I didn't think so at the time, but what kid does? Now I feel the weight of the world and my own mortality pressing down on my shoulders like never before, because I know now that it's a landslide from here, and will just continue to go faster. With age brings excitement, wisdom, but also ultimately death. I also come to the realization day in and day out that I can't go back, I can never again be that child I once was, it seems like a simple fact but to me, the idea of "never again" puts a sharp pain in my heart. I feel as though I do everything now not because I necessarily want to, but because I figure it's what I must do, and that as an adult I have to do what I must to move forward.
I've always been resistant to change, I guess that's one thing I may never outgrow. I'm the person who loves to be comfortable but hates consistency; a true contradiction. I want to at least, keep some part of the child I was inside me, to keep all the different varieties of normal I've experienced somewhere in my mind...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Since this is my last week of school for awhile...
To do list for the summer:
1. Work on some writing, possibly try to actually get something done/published.
2. Get the hell out of Modesto, at least periodically lol.
3. Keep up my new weight loss regimen :D
4. Get my license-finally-
1. Work on some writing, possibly try to actually get something done/published.
2. Get the hell out of Modesto, at least periodically lol.
3. Keep up my new weight loss regimen :D
4. Get my license-finally-
Monday, April 18, 2011
A missing person
On this road I've gathered many rocks in my shoe.
And left behind many souls, but last I thought i'd leave you.
I've let go of many aging, deflating balloons.
But I never once believed that yours, I'd let float so soon.
The cracks in the pavement, I skip two at a time.
My heart is a fool, and my mind painted with crimes.
I stole from you one too many times.
I stole all your thoughts and tossed them in the fire.
I took from your heart all that you aspired.
I ripped from your brain every hope you could fly.
I said you'd never succeed, so why would you try?
Of every mistake I've made old or new, the absolute
worst was losing you.
But today I look in the mirror, where I expect you to be
and all I see is a space where I used to see me.
And left behind many souls, but last I thought i'd leave you.
I've let go of many aging, deflating balloons.
But I never once believed that yours, I'd let float so soon.
The cracks in the pavement, I skip two at a time.
My heart is a fool, and my mind painted with crimes.
I stole from you one too many times.
I stole all your thoughts and tossed them in the fire.
I took from your heart all that you aspired.
I ripped from your brain every hope you could fly.
I said you'd never succeed, so why would you try?
Of every mistake I've made old or new, the absolute
worst was losing you.
But today I look in the mirror, where I expect you to be
and all I see is a space where I used to see me.
Here's to trying to lose weight..again!
Let's see if it works this time.
http://www.pirateslog.org/2.4512/all-the-jeans-i-d-never-wear-1.1798269
http://www.pirateslog.org/2.4512/all-the-jeans-i-d-never-wear-1.1798269
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Wednesday, April 13, 2011
I'm going to my first funeral this weekend
The funeral is for a 21-month old little boy that drowned in his grandparents pool last week. His grandparents are my parents best friends, their daughter is his mother, she's 22. Not that any of that matters, what matters is...that little boy only lived for 21 months..and I can't figure out why. I know horrible things happen all the time for unexplainable reasons but I have always tried to find a reason, have always explained to myself that in order to have light there must first be dark, but this...I can't explain this away. I know now why i'm afraid of having children. It's not because i'm young or unprepared, it's because that would mean that I was responsible for an entire life, that something was alive because of me, and that if it didn't make it...I would never forgive myself. I can't imagine what the mother of that little boy is feeling, she went to the bathroom and in that time frame he got outside and went to the pool..and died. She said she felt his life leave him...and she ran into the backyard and dove into the pool and tried to bring him back, but nothing could. She just knew...
The day before that I was crying about my own life because things have been going so slowly and nothing's been changing..but now I truly know...life can be so much worse. It sounds cliche, but it's true. If that were my baby, I wouldn't ever want to move again. But it wasn't, and I have possibilities and more ahead of me, but that little boy...he never got the chance. His possibility was cut short. It puts things in perspective at least...
I knew I couldn't do anything else..so I wrote this poem for the service.
You watched over him and now he'll watch over you.
He'll never know heartbreak, or war or pain.
He'll always know sunshine and never the rain.
Then when you feel you can't keep yourself whole without
him in your arms, he'll send angel kisses to keep his mother from harm.
When you feel you can't breathe anymore, he'll send cherub kisses to heal
what is sore.
Little angel, little winged thing.
Little angel, little lovely boy.
Though your heart fills with sadness, let your memories ring joy.
Nothing can compare to a mother's heart, her child lives inside, so you will
never truly part.
His eyes are the sky, so deeply blue.
He will always be loved, and so will you.
You watched over him and now he'll watch over you.
The day before that I was crying about my own life because things have been going so slowly and nothing's been changing..but now I truly know...life can be so much worse. It sounds cliche, but it's true. If that were my baby, I wouldn't ever want to move again. But it wasn't, and I have possibilities and more ahead of me, but that little boy...he never got the chance. His possibility was cut short. It puts things in perspective at least...
I knew I couldn't do anything else..so I wrote this poem for the service.
Blue eyed angel: In memory.
His eyes are the sky, so vastly blue.
He'll never know heartbreak, or war or pain.
He'll always know sunshine and never the rain.
Then when you feel you can't keep yourself whole without
him in your arms, he'll send angel kisses to keep his mother from harm.
When you feel you can't breathe anymore, he'll send cherub kisses to heal
what is sore.
Little angel, little winged thing.
Little angel, little lovely boy.
Though your heart fills with sadness, let your memories ring joy.
Nothing can compare to a mother's heart, her child lives inside, so you will
never truly part.
His eyes are the sky, so deeply blue.
He will always be loved, and so will you.
You watched over him and now he'll watch over you.
Ignorance
We read news stories so diligently.
We tell ourselves we're keeping up with current events and smile
believing we're keeping ourselves from ignorance.
We read news stories, and shake our heads and slightly frown, at the
little boy that drowned or the woman who was raped while everybody watched.
We read news stories, and say robotically, "how sad" and turn the page and drink our coffee,
and don't think of it again through our slightly less ignorant day.
We read news stories, but we read them like works of fiction, we look for action,we look for suspense,
we're drawn to human horrors like moths to a match, and the fire reflecting in our eyes excites us,
while we mutter "how sad".
We read news stories, we skip through the classifieds and sports to the obituaries, longing for one to relate to us
a cause of death and when they are only filled with anecdotes and love, we turn the page once more in
search of missing children and serial killers, natural disasters and executions.
We read news stories, because the human race craves tragedy.
We read news stories, because we're frightened of the very tragedy we skim the pages for, frightened that
if we don't read on then our ignorance will catch up to us and soon we will be the next headline.
We read news stories because it's so much more simple than actually doing something to prevent the very things
we long to read.
We tell ourselves we're keeping up with current events and smile
believing we're keeping ourselves from ignorance.
We read news stories, and shake our heads and slightly frown, at the
little boy that drowned or the woman who was raped while everybody watched.
We read news stories, and say robotically, "how sad" and turn the page and drink our coffee,
and don't think of it again through our slightly less ignorant day.
We read news stories, but we read them like works of fiction, we look for action,we look for suspense,
we're drawn to human horrors like moths to a match, and the fire reflecting in our eyes excites us,
while we mutter "how sad".
We read news stories, we skip through the classifieds and sports to the obituaries, longing for one to relate to us
a cause of death and when they are only filled with anecdotes and love, we turn the page once more in
search of missing children and serial killers, natural disasters and executions.
We read news stories, because the human race craves tragedy.
We read news stories, because we're frightened of the very tragedy we skim the pages for, frightened that
if we don't read on then our ignorance will catch up to us and soon we will be the next headline.
We read news stories because it's so much more simple than actually doing something to prevent the very things
we long to read.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
I'm bored.
I'm bored in every cell in my body. Bored with this place,this routine, this way of living. I want more. It sounds greedy, because I know full well I have it better than many, but I can't help this cry for change in my heart. I feel unsuccessful? That doesn't even seem like the correct word. Unfulfilled? Not quite right either. Jaded. That word rings in me a specific note. I feel impatient with my life, I do the same thing each day, I go to school, come home, watch some tv, mess around on the computer and go to bed. Yet I don't know why I do it, I don't even have a reason except that I don't know what else to do. What do I really want out of life? Who is Dani? I want a chance to figure that out and I feel so frustrated that I can't. I want to find a quiet place to clear my soul, not just my head, to be in tune with myself and just...breathe. To for one moment feel satisfied. But then, satisfaction only comes with a solution...and mine is still so unclear.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
I left here much different than I came
I filled my pockets up with stones, and walked away from the valley of the shadow of death.
Turns out it was a swamp instead, and I sank so fast I couldn't catch my breath.
I laughed a little gurgling sound as I disappeared into the mire, the irony was not lost on me
that this would be how I expired.
I had come here wondering where to go, to watch the sun sink like lost hope.
My heart skipped a beat at it's beauty, and I wondered if all things could become clean
once more, if only given the right amount of effort and soap.
My thoughts so cloudy and lazy, a feline memory in my head, napping quietly and yawning
some words I might have said.
I softly sang a threnody with no one around to hear, and wondered if the somber song would make the
ghosts of my past appear.
And if they did what would I tell them?
What lyric would it be?
To explain to them that I would take their place, to let the world see through me.
My solid skin and muscle tissue gave me no escape from death, they felt sturdy reminders at best.
As well as the breath stale in my lungs or the heart beating behind my breast.
I had contemplated a life without the first or latter, of ending something so tedious that I felt it
didn't matter.
That six feet below or six feet above, my body was all but my own, and in the end only I could decide,
for we all die alone.
But I found as I walked, picking stones white and round, that my heart felt less heavy the closer
I was to the ground.
And those ghosts I had mentioned filled me with a sound much like rain, cleaning my soul.
And for the first time in a long time I felt control, that I could decide to live just as much as to die.
I had come here with the sun in my eyes, and left with it somewhere deeper, causing a chain reaction inside
me, too warm for the reaper.
But I had filled my pockets full with stones and forgot how well stones sink, so now here I lay laughing,
strangely all that I can think, is that God finally shares my sense of humor,
strangely all I can do is laugh.
Strangely all I can think is how we all have a single moment, and a thousand paths to reach it.
Somewhere up above I know the sun has finally set, and though my body is growing cold, my heart won't
forget that for a moment it held sunlight, if only for awhile, and strangely now in these brief
moments, I can only smile.
I laughed a little gurgling sound as I disappeared into the mire, the irony was not lost on me
that this would be how I expired.
I had come here wondering where to go, to watch the sun sink like lost hope.
My heart skipped a beat at it's beauty, and I wondered if all things could become clean
once more, if only given the right amount of effort and soap.
My thoughts so cloudy and lazy, a feline memory in my head, napping quietly and yawning
some words I might have said.
I softly sang a threnody with no one around to hear, and wondered if the somber song would make the
ghosts of my past appear.
And if they did what would I tell them?
What lyric would it be?
To explain to them that I would take their place, to let the world see through me.
My solid skin and muscle tissue gave me no escape from death, they felt sturdy reminders at best.
As well as the breath stale in my lungs or the heart beating behind my breast.
I had contemplated a life without the first or latter, of ending something so tedious that I felt it
didn't matter.
That six feet below or six feet above, my body was all but my own, and in the end only I could decide,
for we all die alone.
But I found as I walked, picking stones white and round, that my heart felt less heavy the closer
I was to the ground.
And those ghosts I had mentioned filled me with a sound much like rain, cleaning my soul.
And for the first time in a long time I felt control, that I could decide to live just as much as to die.
I had come here with the sun in my eyes, and left with it somewhere deeper, causing a chain reaction inside
me, too warm for the reaper.
But I had filled my pockets full with stones and forgot how well stones sink, so now here I lay laughing,
strangely all that I can think, is that God finally shares my sense of humor,
strangely all I can do is laugh.
Strangely all I can think is how we all have a single moment, and a thousand paths to reach it.
Somewhere up above I know the sun has finally set, and though my body is growing cold, my heart won't
forget that for a moment it held sunlight, if only for awhile, and strangely now in these brief
moments, I can only smile.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Lifeless or just wordless?
I used to know that I was a writer....
But now I don't know.
I've developed so much doubt in my abilities, my self esteem is at the lowest it's been since early high school, and I can't seem to write anything good anymore...
I just don't feel it, everyone says "just write, just get it done," and i'm wondering if maybe thats why I can't, because everyone just wants me to "get it done" i'm so tired of everybody else...I feel like I need to go somewhere all by myself for a while and just breathe and be me, figure out everything...what I want, who I am, what and who I want to be...I don't know. I miss being a kid more than I think I ever believed possible, life sucked, but at least I could escape into my own mind, at least the responsibility of life wasn't so heavy on my shoulders. Now life sucks in a different way...a way I can't describe or escape. I don't feel the angst of being a teenager or the fear of a child, i'm just...not happy. It's so simple and so complex, I can't describe the feeling, it's just frustrated discontent. I think part of it is that I no longer seem to have an outlet to let out my frustrations, I try to write and either nothing comes to mind or else it comes out as this frustrated attempt that turns into nothing except angry words and expletives. It's crippling to me, I feel like someone has chopped off my legs and arms. I feel breathless..I feel...lifeless.
I need artistic resuscitation...
But now I don't know.
I've developed so much doubt in my abilities, my self esteem is at the lowest it's been since early high school, and I can't seem to write anything good anymore...
I just don't feel it, everyone says "just write, just get it done," and i'm wondering if maybe thats why I can't, because everyone just wants me to "get it done" i'm so tired of everybody else...I feel like I need to go somewhere all by myself for a while and just breathe and be me, figure out everything...what I want, who I am, what and who I want to be...I don't know. I miss being a kid more than I think I ever believed possible, life sucked, but at least I could escape into my own mind, at least the responsibility of life wasn't so heavy on my shoulders. Now life sucks in a different way...a way I can't describe or escape. I don't feel the angst of being a teenager or the fear of a child, i'm just...not happy. It's so simple and so complex, I can't describe the feeling, it's just frustrated discontent. I think part of it is that I no longer seem to have an outlet to let out my frustrations, I try to write and either nothing comes to mind or else it comes out as this frustrated attempt that turns into nothing except angry words and expletives. It's crippling to me, I feel like someone has chopped off my legs and arms. I feel breathless..I feel...lifeless.
I need artistic resuscitation...
Friday, February 25, 2011
Becoming
My body is a chrysalis, numb in becoming.
It's set in quiet motion, it's skin transforming.
Touch it and it will quiver underneath your palm.
I'm just trying to make you understand.
I'm just trying to make you see.
I'm just trying to make you understand, who I am, that I don't know.
What you see is not what I see.
Two separate colors, two different shapes.
You see yin and I see yang.
So be patient with my body as it forms a peace between the two.
Shaking somewhere inside this green cocoon, I don't want you to come inside.
Not yet my love, but soon, when I arise look in my eyes.
And show me what you see, and I hope so will I.
My body is a chrysalis, and I am safe inside.
I am safe from all the horrid things I am and have become.
Wait for me, or walk from me, I deserve you none.
Patience Love, when I emerge my wings will wrap us whole,
my body is a metamorphosis, incomplete, not whole.
If you'll wait I swear to you, my body will be open to you freely,
I won't shake under your touch, I want to see what you see.
My body is a chrysalis, fragile, shaken, new.
Wait for me, my love...my love, and I will find my way out to you.
It's set in quiet motion, it's skin transforming.
Touch it and it will quiver underneath your palm.
I'm just trying to make you understand.
I'm just trying to make you see.
I'm just trying to make you understand, who I am, that I don't know.
What you see is not what I see.
Two separate colors, two different shapes.
You see yin and I see yang.
So be patient with my body as it forms a peace between the two.
Shaking somewhere inside this green cocoon, I don't want you to come inside.
Not yet my love, but soon, when I arise look in my eyes.
And show me what you see, and I hope so will I.
My body is a chrysalis, and I am safe inside.
I am safe from all the horrid things I am and have become.
Wait for me, or walk from me, I deserve you none.
Patience Love, when I emerge my wings will wrap us whole,
my body is a metamorphosis, incomplete, not whole.
If you'll wait I swear to you, my body will be open to you freely,
I won't shake under your touch, I want to see what you see.
My body is a chrysalis, fragile, shaken, new.
Wait for me, my love...my love, and I will find my way out to you.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Today was an odd day
I found out almost first thing this morning that my major and all mass communication majors have been cut from Modesto Junior College, which means either just do General Education next year or else start really getting on the ball about leaving to go to a different school. I'm frustrated because for one I now have no fall back for next Fall, and two it's wrong and unfair that the school expects everyone in those programs to just drop their majors because alot of us don't have transportation or money to go somewhere else -they told us that those classes were cut because there aren't ""any jobs in the workforce for this type of education"", um....what?-.
So, in short, I was not having a good day, but then again neither was anyone else with one of those majors who heard the news. But then I went to a Poetry Slam at MJC tonight which really rejuvenated me for awhile. Hearing people with such passion speak with such beauty really made me feel like I could do something, for real. I wanted to feel the passion these people felt, I mean I do want to feel it. But as I got left the Slam I could feel that feeling washing away with the rain as thoughts of difficulties and frustrations once again filled my brain...for once i'd love to hold onto that feeling, that passion, that motivation, but I feel like as soon as it rises up inside me it dissapears, and i'm once again hopeless and lazy. It's been this way as long as I can remember...I don't know what to do....I miss writing, and I want to feel good again. I wonder if God is making it more difficult as a challenge to me, as if he's saying, "Well, what now, do something." I want to...I want to be like my sister, she's never heard the word no her entire life, and look, she's basically gotten everything she's ever wanted. But how do I change everything about who i've always been? All the negative things anyway...? One poet tonight stated in her poem "we're always becoming", but i'm afraid of what will become of me.
So, in short, I was not having a good day, but then again neither was anyone else with one of those majors who heard the news. But then I went to a Poetry Slam at MJC tonight which really rejuvenated me for awhile. Hearing people with such passion speak with such beauty really made me feel like I could do something, for real. I wanted to feel the passion these people felt, I mean I do want to feel it. But as I got left the Slam I could feel that feeling washing away with the rain as thoughts of difficulties and frustrations once again filled my brain...for once i'd love to hold onto that feeling, that passion, that motivation, but I feel like as soon as it rises up inside me it dissapears, and i'm once again hopeless and lazy. It's been this way as long as I can remember...I don't know what to do....I miss writing, and I want to feel good again. I wonder if God is making it more difficult as a challenge to me, as if he's saying, "Well, what now, do something." I want to...I want to be like my sister, she's never heard the word no her entire life, and look, she's basically gotten everything she's ever wanted. But how do I change everything about who i've always been? All the negative things anyway...? One poet tonight stated in her poem "we're always becoming", but i'm afraid of what will become of me.
Monday, February 21, 2011
I need motivation...
I haven't posted anything in awhile [since my last blog which lacked any paragraphs or breaks whatsoever and was pretty much a product of being upset >_>. But still looks terrible]. Anyway, I figured why not post again, it's probably a good writing exercise, and I could use as many of those as I can get. I can honestly say that I am on the biggest writing freeze in my entire life, and it makes me very sad, because I love writing, it's my dream-or at least it used to be..-I don't really know anymore. I don't really know what my motivation is in general anymore. Lately I've just felt restless and like i'm crawling in my own skin trying to get out, I feel a scream building up inside of me like I have many times before but it's different this time.
This scream isn't compiled of angst and self hatred or the need to feel loved, instead it's made up of frustration and dissapointment and an anxiety that I can only describe as one of the most adult feelings i've ever had. It's the anxiety of someone who knows that from here time will only slip faster through my fingers and every moment that i'm not working toward something larger and greater for my life I feel like i'm wasting that time. The dissapointment is primarily in myself...in my inability to become motivated despite that anxiety, motivated in school or in losing weight -i've gained about fifty pounds since this time last year...- and dissapointment in the mere fact that i'm watching every person i've grown up with leave and begin their lives and do things while i'm still here...stuck...and I have only myself to blame. Procrastination, stubbornness, laziness..they're all to blame. How to fix things? I'm really not sure anymore, but I know I can't keep going the way I am. I want to say I have a plan, but really I don't. I keep making promises I don't keep and it's really putting me at ends with myself...motivation is key, but I don't know where to find it from deep within me, especially when I don't even know exactly what I want to be motivated for anymore.
But I guess I should start somewhere so:
In the next 9 months:
-lose sixty pounds
-get my damn license
-find a new job
-Make a final decision on my career path and follow it through to a T without cutting corners
-Find a new and productive hobby
In the next year:
-Buy a car
-Save enough money for me and Nick to get our own place
- Decide on a school and apply
-Move to Oregon [or wherever else our little hearts may desire, as long as its out of God awful Modesto]
-Be happy? [I sure as hell hope so.]
So I guess thats a start...but will I do it? I suppose that's for me to decide...
God help us. >_>
This scream isn't compiled of angst and self hatred or the need to feel loved, instead it's made up of frustration and dissapointment and an anxiety that I can only describe as one of the most adult feelings i've ever had. It's the anxiety of someone who knows that from here time will only slip faster through my fingers and every moment that i'm not working toward something larger and greater for my life I feel like i'm wasting that time. The dissapointment is primarily in myself...in my inability to become motivated despite that anxiety, motivated in school or in losing weight -i've gained about fifty pounds since this time last year...- and dissapointment in the mere fact that i'm watching every person i've grown up with leave and begin their lives and do things while i'm still here...stuck...and I have only myself to blame. Procrastination, stubbornness, laziness..they're all to blame. How to fix things? I'm really not sure anymore, but I know I can't keep going the way I am. I want to say I have a plan, but really I don't. I keep making promises I don't keep and it's really putting me at ends with myself...motivation is key, but I don't know where to find it from deep within me, especially when I don't even know exactly what I want to be motivated for anymore.
But I guess I should start somewhere so:
In the next 9 months:
-lose sixty pounds
-get my damn license
-find a new job
-Make a final decision on my career path and follow it through to a T without cutting corners
-Find a new and productive hobby
In the next year:
-Buy a car
-Save enough money for me and Nick to get our own place
- Decide on a school and apply
-Move to Oregon [or wherever else our little hearts may desire, as long as its out of God awful Modesto]
-Be happy? [I sure as hell hope so.]
So I guess thats a start...but will I do it? I suppose that's for me to decide...
God help us. >_>
Monday, February 7, 2011
I miss inside jokes
I miss having someone to really talk to. I can talk to my boyfriend..but I can't talk about everything...like I can't talk about us from a different point of view like I could with a close friend and get his feedback without having him take it the wrong way, because that's just how relationships work. You talk about certain things with your boyfriend and certain things with your friends that's just how it goes, pretty understandable right? Relationships are hard and when your fighting or things are shaky it's nice to have someone else to confide in, because no matter how good your relationship is it will be shaky at some point, it's inevitable to have bad times. I just miss the days in high school when I had that best friend to go to during those times, during any kind of bad time, and suddenly over the last year that comfort has disappeared along with almost every I had...sure we all still talk once in awhile and meet up when we realize it's been just a little too long, but really it's not the same....that bond I once had is gone and I have to recognize that fact every day. I love my boyfriend, very much, but that doesn't mean I don't miss sleepovers with my friends, hanging out at the park, or just walking around the mall doing nothing. I miss being sixteen and I'm only twenty, aren't you supposed to be forty before you miss that? I know I changed, a lot, did a lot of things i'm not proud of, and grew distant. But I don't believe that it's all MY fault alone, I was part of it, but it wasn't just me that faded away. I can't remember the last time I had an inside joke with anybody...and some how that sucks most of all. I'm not the dork anymore that hung out in the middle of a group and wondered if I was really part of it, i'm the woman that knows that I always was and took it for granted. I stopped, I learned how to breathe again, I put down the bottle and stopped crying in the bathroom drunk, I gained about fifty pounds and began looking at where I wanted to start my life, and in the midst of all that I met who I believe is the love of my life, and we have a relationship, it isn't perfect but he loves me and so far he's the only one who hasn't left and who says he never will and so I suppose we'll make our own inside jokes and hang at the park and go to the movies and have sleepovers, because he's my best friend now. So, that's what i've been up to friends, thats my life now, I miss you but I guess that's growing up, I'll be here if you ever want what we once had as kids...but I guess in perspective it will never be the same huh? Nostalgia is a dirty prankster, leaving banana peels in my brain to slip on when i'm feeling my weakest, but I know that now I have someone to catch me where my childhood friends once did. So relationships get shaky, and I'll need friends now and then, but i'm glad for the one that I have, the one that holds my heart. I think i keep going on with this blog tonight because I don't know how to end it...i'm in a very weird mood, mixed together with nostalgia, fear, sadness and gratefulness, and honestly i'd take a warm hug right now quite openly. So i'll end with this, I began writing this blog feeling uncertain and scared and lonely, and am now ending it feeling a twinge of all of those still, but now also I feel glad to have him, and I just want him to get home from class so I can curl up in his arms and feel safe again, safe from the memories of an easier time when I was a child and safe from the thoughts wondering if it was my fault after all...and will I screw up that badly again with him? I can't lose another friend.
Monday, January 31, 2011
First Taste of Loss
My first sip of loss, like a fine wine gone dry on my lips,
On my tongue.
It slides down my throat like honey but tastes more like tar.
It comes in the simplest form; innocence.
Bittersweet, it’s ingredients mixed together with something else
That doesn’t belong, small enough that you only
Notice in the aftertaste, a bitter bit of nothing that
You could ignore…but can’t.
The first taste of loss, like ancient candy between my teeth.
So old it’s melted itself into something bland, no longer sweet with
Only a memory of delicious and saccharine it once
Was.
I struggle to swallow and retch with each attempt but still deep down
Inside I know I must choke down every bitter morsel,
Every tasteless bite until it’s lodged in my gut.
Because this too is a part of life and this too is worth consuming even
If it leaves me never ever wanting more.
Friday, January 28, 2011
I wonder where all this will ever take me
I seem to spend the majority of my time at school, though i'm starting to wonder why. At least at this institution. I feel as though i'm wasting my time at a school where my major is a step away from being put on the chopping block evey second and it's almost impossible to take any general education, what community college is actually meant fo, because the school is so under-funded and over crowded that I can never register for a class in time. I've been seriously looking into University of Oregon because they have a fantastic Journalism program, but at the moment it too is looking bleak as I just don't know how i'm going to afford the move =/. I don't want to live in a dorm because it's actually more expensive than an apartment and my boyfriend and I want to find a place together, not to mention I still have been unable to get my license >_>. It just seems like so much, and I want out of this rat hole called Modesto so bad. I've never hated a place with such fierocity. I feel happy when i'm just relaxing with him...but so stressed and manic when I think about what seems to be a far off future that I can feel in my heart, but just can't see in front of me. I'm not even sure that i'm in the correct major...but all I know how to do is write, I can't think of anything i'd rather do. If writing was all that was required in Journalism it would be perfect, but it's not. There's so much more, so much social interaction and honestly, I know i'm a good writer, but i'm an awful reporter. I still haven't been able to completley shed the introvert inside of me, i've gotten better, but it's still pretty bad >_<. People frighten me, I don't know why, but I choke in front of strangers. Anyway...I guessI just wish I could find something certain to grab onto, to know i'm on the right path...but I suppose everyone wants that don't they? If we were certain we were doing the right thing all the time, where would the adventure or risk be I guess. But I hope there is more adventure than risk in this journey.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
My dog died this week
I've had my German Shepherd, Max, since I was nine. I'm twenty now and he's gone...his back legs went out and he was in a lot of pain so we put him to sleep. It seems like such an average thing, so small to some people and yet for me, someone who has never experienced anything dying, anything I really knew anyway, it's surreal. I can't seem to wrap my head around him being gone...just gone. He was such a constant in my life for so long that I feel like something's off about my home now, I feel like any second he'll come galloping around the corner out of our hallway and I'll give him a biscuit and pet him on the head. His death marked more for me than the death of an animal that was more than a pet, but a member of my family and one of the most loving things I've ever known. It marked the end of my childhood. I know I should have seen that as over a long time ago, but somehow it didn't seem like it until now, for the first time I've come to the realization that nothing will ever be the same and from this point forward, loss will come more an more frequently. Loss of each and every thing that once meant comfort and security and innocence, all the things that make being a child such a precious thing. I'm an adult now...and i'm going to have to learn to be stronger. The loss of Max shook me to the core, so what about when it's a person? Will I shut down? Will I give up? I'd like to think not, but i don't know. I feel like I am grieving two separate entities this week, and one of them is me.
[RIP Max. We'll never forget you, and we'll always love you.]
[RIP Max. We'll never forget you, and we'll always love you.]
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