I Dare You.

Because really, who can I be completely honest with besides a piece of paper?

I would love to feel complete, but comparison is inevitable. When life's this eventful all around, it's hard not to feel like I'm missing out. Mine is the one ordinary, but I'm hardly grateful. The bustle of activity around me is contageous, and I'm aching to catch it. Something from left field, anything from out of nowhere; I need something to mix up monotony. Most people are content with life being a happy shade of normal, but I just can't make myself fit. I like the unexpected, and change keeps life interesting. I need my dose; I'm overdue. Coasting these past days and weeks in sick beds and reruns has me falling into the corner office mentality. Stain my skin, shock my spirit. Something shiny and new is looking mighty enticing, all I need is the store window to reveal exactly what I'm shopping for.

I'm here and I'm listening. I'm only one person, but I know you feel that itch for something fresh growing in you. I want a change of pace; do you? I'm ready, I feel it coming, but I don't know what to expect. And I love it. I don't know what it is, but if you're reading this and dying to get something out, don't leave me, her, him, or whoever you're thinking of hanging. Don't be afraid to be the change we all need every now and then. I won't settle into a routine. I refuse to watch life pass me by. I do miss the times when I never knew what to expect and the people who did it best. I do miss countless times I spent being young and crazy.

This is a call to action. This is a challenge. If you have anything you're holding in, let it out. If you're entertaining thoughts in your mind and they're palying at your lips, don't keep them in. Take the day-to-day averageness of life and kick it aside. Who ever wanted to just go through life blind? I need the edge of the cliff and the smell of the sea to remind me why I'm alive. I can't just go through life, wasting my time; I have to really live it. So go ahead, say those forbidden words or spill the confession you've been storing up. Reveal those feelings you've been nursing for someone you still care about. Life's about the moment, so take this moment as yours. You won't look back and wish you'd wondered what if instead of acting on it.

I will crawl. Somewhere my unexpected is coming. I just don't know where to look. I think that's a good start. Unexpecting the unexpected. Whoever you are, whatever it is, set my life on fire.

I always have been restless.

PS- I officially have 0 drafts left. All posted. Happy hunting.

Worth Saving.

What's worth everything? I read somewhere to make a list of 10 things worth saving. So I did just that. Here are the ten things that I always make a point of keeping in my thoughts, and hold near and dear to my heart. These are what I see as my responsibility to be smart about, and underneath each, I'll tell you why. In no particular order, my ten things worth saving:

1) Best friends.
Kind of goes without explanation exactly why this falls on this list. This goes for current best friends, those that have fallen away, and those that I don't call best friend, but instead, family. Once a person is closer to me than just a good friend, I trust them with parts of me I wouldn't feel comfortable screaming to the world. I hope that they'd entrust the same to me, and if they do, I'd never betray that. A best friend is someone who would run when you called at an ungodly hour, or in the middle of the most important work meeting of the year. Even when friends fade or fall away, they mean the world to me. I look back at best friends past and smile; I don't regret the time and trust I spent on them. I'd still help them if there was anything they needed from me. It takes a lot to push me away, and even when I am, I tend not to stay away for long. Call me crazy but I believe these people were put in my life because they needed me, just like I needed them. My mom, dad, brother, sister, cousins, they all fit the definition of a best friend. I'm blessed with an army that would stand up for me whenever I sent out the SOS. Count me as a part of countless armies as well.

2) Money.
I confess, I know the feeling of taking a check straight from payday to the bank, cashing it and having one hell of a weekend. But then the old lady in me kicks in and I remember the value of stockpiling. Since I was about 13, I've had a bank account and several jobs to feed it. Of course being a teenager I spent a good chunk of the cash I made (sometimes spent more than I saved, oops). Today, however, most of my money goes straight to the bank, and I only make withdrawals when I need it or feel like something nice every now and then. I'll be poor next year if I don't build up a good cushion, and I have to start good habits now. This way, transitioning into good old adulthood will be that much less traumatizing. Money's fun when it's spent fast, but you'll appreciate it more when you know it's there when you need it.

3) Exes.
This one is so easily misconstrued. Let's clear this up: I don't mean I never give up on them as in never stop liking them. Nonono, once the healing process runs its course, I'm over that and onto what's new in life. What I do mean is that I always like to keep my exes close as friends. I can't imagine someone who's been close to me like a best friend becoming a stranger. I can't take passing them in the hallways or seeing them through mutual friends and acting like we don't share an eventful past. I don't regret the fun I had with each and every one, and I'd never let it go to waste. I'll be there for them just like I would an estranged best friend, whenever they need me, I'd be happy to help. No one's ever out for the count in my book. I wouldn't give someone my all just to act like I never cared once it's over. My heart's used to holding them dear, and I don't correct it. Despite what anyone says, I think exes make great friends.

4) Love.
It makes me want to scream, cry, or stomp on something very fragile when I see how easily my peers give their love away. By my tender age of 18, most people would've told somewhere between 5 and 10 (and maybe more) people they love them, and would say that they've been in love at least 3 or 4 times (because everyone know they say it more than they mean it). It's sad to me, to see a lovecrazy girl posting glittery "I LoVe U B4BBii!"s all over their embarassed significant other's myspace. The word love has virtually lost its meaning on most of the people around us today. We throw it on boyfriends of one week and cry when it falls flat two and a half weeks later. We shouldn't be ashamed to hold those words in until we feel like they're going to fly out at any moment. When it's tormenting the tip of your tongue, restless and ready to fly, is when it's right. Don't be ashamed to hold your love firmly within yourself. You don't have to give it away, and you're not incomplete if you haven't. Well below the statistics, I'm proud of the love I've shown and the love I've kept in. I've hardly uttered the words in that dangerous way, and I can't wait until I find something worth the title. It's saved so it means that much more when it enters the atmosphere.

5) Favorites.
This one's selfish if you look at it a certain way. I believe that the things you've come to know as your own, your favorite corner restaurants and undiscovered local indie bands, are something precious. Whether you save it by broadcasting it to the world so that the overwhelming support betters it, or you save it by telling only the people you think will really appreciate it so it's never overrun. It's okay to be a tiny bit territorial about your list toppers. Don't hold it to yourself and keep the world in the dark, but choose your sharing wisely. It can be a great way of letting people into your life, of showing people who you really are and what matters to you.

6) Sunshine.
You know that song, "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day"? That falling star is how I feel about sunshine. I know its about two hundred tiems more plentiful and a lot less extraordinary, but sunshine has saved me countless times. In a literal sense, the daylight always brought me out of my darkest thoughts and fears, ever since I was young. I've always hated dark, and as a little girl, I would have night terrors and terrible anxiety when it was time to rest my head. Bottled up sunshine in my electronics always stole some of my fear. That light was my sunshine, and it was enough to tide me over until it flooded through my windows and halted my sleep. I find sunshine in happiness, even when rain's pouring and I can't see anything out my window. I think my young mind dressed sunshine up as a healing power free of its literal definition, and I've carried that with me in life. Now I save up the moments that warm my skin and sink through, and hold them close for the next time the sun sets too abruptly. That way I always have light to guide me, and I never have to rely on dark hallways to show me where to go.

7) Lyrics.
Word documents, scraps of paper, web sites, profiles, notebooks: you can find lyrics adorning just about any surface if you look hard enough (which really isn't hard at all. 3 or 4 clicks of a mouse, really). Words that others have written have a way of working in our hearts and forming our own thoughts in a way we never knew was possible. Countless times, I have found myself staring my emotional situation in the face in the form of lyrics. It can be so hard to formulate thoughts when you're not at your finest, and lyrics are a beautiful way of putting to words those impossible thoughts bouncing off the walls of your skull. They're just another way of showing how alike we all are when it comes down to it. So next time a song comes on and the words hit you square in the face, write them down. Put the song on repeat, memorze them, whatever you need. You can look back on that song and remember exactly how you felt in a previous moment, and being able to soak in the moment is one of the greatest feelings I've experienced.

8) Familiar Strangers.
Say what? I guess a definition is in order before I expand: what I call a familiar stranger is the person you see everyday at school, but never talk to. You know, the freshman that you see between 4th and 5th period, but you have absolutely no clue what their name is? That's a familiar stranger. You know nothing about their life, who they're friend with, or what kind of dog they have, but you'd recognize them if you saw them at the mall on the weekend. These people never expect you to be there for them, and they probably have never even thought about it. But if you ever notice or hear that a person like this is going through something that you've developed a shared pain or expertise for, don't be afraid to step up and say "Hey, I don't know you, but I'm here if you need someone." Sometimes, someone new is the only real solution to unfamiliar pains. Don't be too proud to go a little outside of your usual routine.

9) Letters.
I am the very epitome of someone who writes letters nonstop, but hardly ever sends them. I think this is another lesson I took from my childhood, Growing up, my parents told me to write out how I felt in a letter to the person who was hurting my feelings or making me angry, then tear it up, and I'd feel better. I always did, and it always worked, at least for a few hours. Now that I'm older, I write out how I feel, but I scarcely tear it up. I either save it, so I remember how I felt, being a person that's easy to forget hurt and accept secondhand happiness. It motivates me to seek total clarity, and I get out my rash, heat of the moment feelings in a place where the person can't see and misunderstand them. Only when I've had the chance to compose what I really feel, minus the edgy words that would do nothing but prolong a solution, will I share my letters or speak something similar to them. Often, I send the letters that I know I won't be able to say verbally. It's hard to fully express what you want to say when you're speaking it. So when I have something important to say, and I know words on paper is the only way I can get it out in one piece, I fold the paper twice and deliver. I'm thankful for the therapy I got from those letters filled with venting that never saw daylight, and I'm almost thankful for the clarity I got from the ones I did choose to send.

10) Yourself.
No, this is not a public service announcement from Camp Virginity telling you to keep your legs closed till your ring finger is covered in gold and diamonds. Instead, save yourself in this way: know when your well being is being compromised by trying to save someone else. You don't have to die for something that doesn't care about your efforts. I know everyone has that urge in them to fight for something that isn't fighting back, but there's no reason why we should let ourselves get hung up by it. Respect yourself, first and foremost, and through that, you can truly respect the people around you, and they can pay you that same respect. It takes a power within yourself to prove that you're worth respecting. It's not selfish to acknowledge that you are your number one priority, and you shouldn't be ashamed of that. It applies in thousands of ways; that time you went home instead of partying with kids you hardly knew, that day you smacked that boy's hand away from your zipper (and that day you let him, but didn't let him talk you further), and the hours you spent at family birthday dinners instead of out with your friends. Know your priorities, and know what trust is. You shouldn't feel ashamed to be anyone but yourself. You're beautiful, and I don't care who reads this and laughts at that. I don't think people are told that they are wonderful frequently enough. Everyone has beauty in them; it's how hard we're willing to look for it and how often we choose to remind them of it that determines its prominence in our lives.

So there you go, there's ten things that I believe are better worth saved than thrown away. Maybe we have some in common, and I hope that a few things came to mind when you read mine, just something for you to think on.

Beauty In The Breakdown.

When it comes down to it, I'm just another girl who writes about boys too much. I'm just another artists filling spaces with recreations of past masterpieces. I am nothing new and yet completely my own. My inspiration is typical and common. So where's the beauty, optimist? Why sweat it out when so many have come before, during, and after?

Because the same old problems never stop. The typical will never cease to be relatable. I'm unashamed to be a face in the crowd, because after all, there has to be so many like me surrounding for a crowd to be possible. It's rare for a person to stand out on the sidewalk and stare at the sun completely content. Most of us find home in others, comfort in the familiar but unidentical. Every experience shared is like one that has happened before, but no two are exact. Just a hair, a detail, a step to the left and slightly off-center. But this web of experience, of all life's obstacles, intertwines us all.

No one's alone. Even the rare few who wish for seclusion can never fully obtain it. There's consolation to be found, and sometimes in the most unlikely of sources. In fact, sometimes unlikely is exactly what we need. Sometimes the likely and solid fail to understand, and its then that we press out the wall of our comfort zone and let in more than we ever knew could fit in our life's personal, cramped cubicle.

So it makes us all completely unoriginal to know that virtually everything we'll ever face is shared. We live in a time where people go out of their way to wear shoes on the wrong feet or colors you can only see on the weekends just to be unique. Nonconformity has become conformity. It's cool to be crazy, so why get bogged down by the unoriginality of it all? We're all uniquely the same. We're all going out of our way to be just like our next door neighbors. It's a waste of time spending your life with something to prove.

Hello hypocrite, I've spent precious days doing just that. But I've also spent unending phone calls and miserable middles of the night with blotchy cheeks and words I'll wish I hadn't said the next day. But yet tomorrow came and I wasn't sorry. I woke up to a face on a pillow that stored my hysterics and took them as momentary. Nothing comes back to haunt you when you refuse to be spooked. I'm proud of days I spent openly vulnerable, spilling thoughts my dramatized, swollen heart dreamed up. Those time I broke round me out, and the days I spent with the broken are my biggest and best accomplishments.

I'm proud of humanity at its weakest. As strang as it sounds, I think people are beautiful when they allow themselves to meet vulnerability. Those times make us strongest when we look back, and they're time we should never be ashamed of. We all have them; the vicious cycle reminds us that we're never alone. Never be afraid to tear every wall down, to crush the house of cards you spent three days and four dollars on super glue to construct. Total strength from broken pieces. It's then, when you're completely drained of everything, that you can be free to have anything.

I'm not broken down and I'm flying high, but I'm braced and ready for whenever weakness rears. I'm unashamed, solace in place and prepared to console at the ring of a phone or speak of a front door. I won't let anyone feel alone. I hope this is how I can save the world, person by person. Closed-off is overrated. Wide arms embrace when your legs give out.

We're all part of this common thread. Extend your hands and stretch your hearts.

A Little Bit of Momentum.

It's now that I know this doesn't end.

We've been running our own circles, continuously, always intersecting at one point just to continue on. We're growing up but not growing apart. You're the only one who has ever sparked my curiosity for this long. All this time my regard for health has been toxic, and you're medicinal where others were no more than hospice. You make me want to believe in something that is bigger than me, you, and the quest that seems to never end when we're this young. We brush elbows and throw punches, but I know my hand lingers a little too long on yours.

You're comfortable, but hardly my comfort zone. This saga has eluded me, and I'm nothing short of terrified that it will never stop. But I'm pumping my breaks and I can feel friction kicking in. I'll bring myself to stare words that have killed in the face. Somehow, I know this is just another lyrical story, composed by another and foreign to you. Your arms around my waist doesn't feel like goodbye. You're writing your own song, and it's daringly close to plaigarism. My words on your page. It's the most beautiful crime I could imagine.

So why do we fight it? Our circles go on ahead of us even if we choose not to stop at their intersection. One day, 360 completes and again your face has my vision enslaved. I'm captive but captivating. I'm not so helpless when you're holding on for dear life. Fall. Jump. I think I let go when so many friendly faces slapped me across the face with your picture. It will run circles till we hang up our hula hoops for good. I know that now. We alone can stop the clock together. The timing's never been right, but somehow, now seems perfectly timely. Don't stop long enough to ask yourself if it's too good to be true when it's amazing that it's happening.

Dropped on my face, you gave me your hand and kept it until it was warm. Your joke lit up my face and reflected in yours. I couldn't claim hurt when you eased the blow. You proved that those who left me were best left traveling without me in the passenger's seat. Because in your eyes, I see myself as something precious. Three year constant, who's seen me through so much change; you still appreciate everything I am. And I'm forever in awe of who you are. All the time I spent fighting this pulling attraction, distracting myself with right now boys and current trends, there was you. I never lost you, you never lost me, and I don't think we will ever lose this.

We're scared it's just another false start, but I say we run anyway. This will be beautiful when the time finally falls on our side. It could be now and it's not too late. Hold your breath and don't hold back.I know you felt my heart quicken. I know those jokes we made were covering up honesty. My head found a home on your shoulder and my smile found a light in your laugh.

I can't deny it anymore; I can't deny you anymore. Heart in hand. Take or turn.

Fresh Start. 12/26/08

I wrote this song on December 26. I decided to post it because I never seem to be able to write a song I actually like. I liked this one a lot. Although the inspiration's gone, writing a good song is few and far between for me, so I figured, why the heck not. It's one of the only songs I've ever written and liked, so, here you go.

To you, I will pour the soul I've been guarding
Let you in past the brick walls and maze of my mind
Light hearted, we are, and still so much more
No one does what you do
In any way, anytime
You're the one, I can promise you for here and now, at the very least

Start fresh, baby
Starting with this

I trust you, I want you

I need you alone

Take my hand and promise me forever
because you're not that kind
But we've broken our pasts, why stop where we are?
When words fail, words flow
You're mine, my favorite sentence
Two words, I confess
Mark my happiness

Start fresh, baby
Starting with
I trust you,

I want your future and mine, one collide
Valentine, spring fling, summer lover
All in you
I can see where I'm headed
Stare into the path ahead with me
Whisper the words so many abuse
Because I've found in my heart
It's true

Start fresh, baby
Starting with...

The past is gone
and it doesn't matter to me anyway
Who you are now is exactly who I want
And who you've been is a memory
Wash your hands, baby
Take a chance, start over
It's as easy as I care about you
and as simple as loving me
Just say you'll come with me
And we'll find out where we're going
Together

Heart Wide Open.

Today I set old thoughts free. Drafts had accumulated on my list of posts here, and I knew I couldn't keep them from eyes much longer. Looking back, the experiences seemed so much less isolated. Finally, I was compelled to press that glaring orange PUBLISH POST button to three or four aging works. A cheat softens the blow; they posted under the original date which they were written. But maybe that's not the easy way out. Now you can see the surrounding pieces and puzzle them together. The date at the top is when the thoughts were at their most honest. Sure, you have to dumpster dive to locate them, but ultimately, my heart's wide open.

Some of my most weak thoughts breathed their first today. Long locked up sentiment was released. I post it because I'm not ashamed anymore. I hope that more people can open the doors to their heart. I want to let people in. I want all of me to be known, and I hope that I can be loved despite my moments of weakness and vulnerability, because underlying are strengths and victory. Nothing that won't injure should be reserved selfishly. There's something about people at their most honest that gives me faith that even kids can save the world.

Just to the right, seeing that draft won't be missed.

Lesson Plan.

I fill in your first and middle with your last, answers in order. If only I’d had the benefit of a cheat sheet when I chose you. 25% success meets 75% failure. Majority rules, and no I can’t cheat the system. My test comes back with big red marks over your initials. Life didn’t have that leisure. Only harsh words and louder actions could be my red Xs, but thank god you marked yourself wrong somehow. I need a sympathetic teacher to take test corrections; I need to save my grade and my panicked mind. Time plays teacher, and grade point averages slope up gradually. I hadn’t failed, but the borderline was still too close for comfort.

D raises from C to B; plateau’s hit. I’m not an A student in this subject. Absorb lesson after lesson, and take in maybe half. I’m unacquainted with this lack of success. Miss 4.0, meet the blemish on your transcript. Miss straight A, meet your biggest flaw. It’s dressed up to spite the seasons and strong enough to trample my best efforts. I’m a line of toy soldiers in gunfire, helpless. But determination kicks in. I may be a slacker, but I’m stubborn. I find strength parallel and draft it to my team. I’m becoming more immune.

Realization one, you’re simply embodiment. You’re the mutual acquaintance standing between, introducing my downfall, but you are not my downfall. It rides on your back and in your passenger seat, but you cannot contain it. I’m acing again. My record’s flawless. I’m on a roll and set to graduate with honors. I need this for me; I know you need nothing more. I dress up stories and entertain them in my attic. I’m a betting person, and I’m willing to wager you at face value.
Nothing lies beneath; this is simple. My toy guns fought and won. Shut down analysis and shut up outlandish thoughts. I know now that those push the camaraderie away. I just want to live, and you to live it up with. You’re my left hand, not my heart.

Kick back and grab me one; just call me buddy. There’s good time girl.

Upside Down, Just Right.

This story isn't over. I foresee a relapse. Finding our balance will take some vicious teetering; one hits bottom when the other flies high. One day we'll get it right, eye to eye, playing nice. What's our balance? I can't tell. All I know is we are inevitably intertwined. We are in corresponding lives and the best part of me says its permanent. We're meant to make a great impact. Let's live up to the standard we're set up for. I'm ready to make a difference, and let you prove capable of the same.

Our way of getting to our final destination always will be backroads. We'll take wrong turns on the way, I know; we already have. But if we stay close to the main road, we'll never lose sight. Be patient enough for the ultimate answer to mess up a little along the way. No one understands why I want you in my life, but don't go. I need your fresh perspective in my life. You need me too; I hope you know. Walk beside me and we'll stumble our way towards finding what we're looking for.

Your Specialty.

You're intoxicated behind the wheel, poison close by to maintain the edge. One burns in your hand; the breeze carries its trail away, winding like the road ahead. Endless roads lead your aimless mind. Maybe I should wonder how you stay inbetween the lines, but my mind's in the same layer of the atmosphere as yours. Passengers seat's silent except for the sound of my own foreign laughter. What's in the can? Down another taste.

It's your aura. Billboards and junk mail tell me about this. Underage misconduct, subject of lectures- you wear it on your skin. Reflected in your eyes, somehow it's not the sin mommy and daddy and the books told me it was. You like this, abusing the controls. But my trust doesn't shake and my conscience doesn't scream. What do you do? How do you do it? The poison must run a different course through your body. My edges are blurred and I'm a girl I've never met, but you're the same you I knew hours before. Conspirator to your crime, enabling, but I don't feel sorry. Somehow I trust you to carry me to later days. The road we're on doesn't end when we turn into the driveway. Outside's covered in a cloud of smoke.


Enter with caution, but I enter like a long lost friend stands inside. I pick up a cup and trash the can. Take a drag; take a hit. It's the atmosphere and everyone's playing. Who ever volunteered to get picked last? Belly up. You're the MVP; it's your art, and you train the room. I trained my eyes to admire when my mind was hazed enough to let them. I'm weak but I feel so strong. My conscience says slow, child, and I tell it I will tomorrow.


Where'd the night go? Sun shines under the door. And as I walk away, I wonder if it was worth it. I want to say no, but I laugh instead. Youth twists and turns, and I'm strapped into this ride. You won't catch me green in the face; I know where the coaster turns from shameless to stomach turning. No worries. Stay down for the ride, but get off before you blow.

Now I know how much it takes to throw me off. I'm immune to you now, resident specialist of all things young and crazy. You're a good time and no more, no more.



You're notorious and nothing I need, but I think I'll keep you around to play it cool.

This is the Countdown. Dated 1/1.

Out of sight, out of mind...

might as well me your mantra, baby. Thank god this warm place called me away, or else I would've stared hurt in the face after more time and sentiment. Not even one month deep and now it's clear you can't handle something honest. 20 minutes to a fresh start, I was thrown off balance. But you can bet that I celebrated as the countdown began. For 10 seconds, just minutes after your blindsiding, you didn't matter. Because you can deny it, but I know you wanted to be rid of me for guilt free fun. Don't pretend it was anything else, anything else could've waited out the 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2...

You sold yourself out. She'd cuddled up tight to your side, and I hope you forgot who she was for a second when you opened your eyes. I hope your hangover bites at your mind like it usually would your stomach. I hope you wake up sorry. I hope you find morning, mind cleared of Keystone and skol, and realize the mess you made. All I can wish is that you know now, as you sober up, that you were the asshole that caught me off guard.

See you when you come crawling back to me.

(This has been on my phone forever, and I finally decided I liked it enough (and wanted it to stop taking up space on my phone) to post it. This is the first piece I wrote in the new year, word for word, as I wrote it January first.)

Attempt at the Incapturable.

I love the feeling that words can't capture.

I look back at my writing and I can see when I was at my best. Posts mark strengths and weaknesses, but the high is nowhere to be found in words. When I'm on fire, just living and completely content, words elude me. And that's okay. I've always called writing my therapy, and it seems like I always have something I need to express, a point I need to solidify in written proof, to prove to myself or no one but whoever needs it.

Even now my thoughts are less than best, and I'm writing now for a feeling of duty. I want to capture for once, the soundness of mind that comes with my favorite attitude. Yes, this is possibly my favorite feeling to experience. I have no expectations of myself; none expect to live and have the time of my life. The thing that matters most to me now, is the very fact that I'm young. My whole self is kicking up a notch at living life to its fullest. Again, I feel weightless. Life's never looked fuller. Potential is swelling and so is my excitement. Nothing in particular, not a single special prospect, but everything in my mind is settling. And just the thought of being young and having time ahead of me to live is an absolute gift.

I'll show at the party. I'll be the spontaneous weekend plans, those two girls right beside me. They make me better, and I bless every day that I can grace their lives. Bring on the new friends, the random places, and even crazier plans. Here's to living with a grip. Here's to going crazy without losing all self control. Here's to being young, and here's to living like we are.

Let the fun begin.

Much Needed Freedom.

Nicotine buzzed to the tune of blasting volume, racing railroads to whatever lies ahead.

At moments like this we laugh at anything while the bass pounds a rap beat. We don’t remember. She says rap doesn’t make her sad. I say its lyrics have nothing to do with anything we go through, and we don’t change the station. We’re suspended in a state of nothing but the interior of that maroon car. Three bodies, two lane roads, one massive pile of blankets. Left turn onto an empty road in an even emptier town, and we point at houses the wind could blow over. At the top of a hill, only a few miles away, two or three majestic houses crown the middle of nowhere with an undue beauty. Circle K and cornfields are all they have to show for their splendor. And we drive.

Into the picture of stereotypical Indiana, passing through more villes and towns than we knew existed. Needmore left, Peerless right. We can have whatever we like. Something leads to screaming, and from then on every song is remixed. Laughing to the point of tears and slap happy, familiar tunes are debunked. Love Story’s told three times. Let’s drive to Kentucky; let’s drive through the city. Familiar ground in a small town. We don’t talk about burdens. The hum of the road under tires and laughter of our best friends are therapy. I think we all think about everything or nothing. I, for one, am freed. My burden’s lifted, left on wrinkled pages, not mine now. For once powerless feels so good, there on the dark unfamiliar road. The only people I needed, contained inside that car.

After a gas station run, sour gummy worms, and 75-cent souvenirs, crazy late night attendants point us to the interstate. Familiarity rises again but doesn’t sting. It’s good to be alive. I find peace on those roads again. I feel happier than I’ve ever been. We’re tired and fading, and we stop spinning wheels, complete for now. Vows to do it again, stronger to fight fatigue, and excitement rises in my stinging throat. I sleep with my best friends in close vicinity. I stand corrected; this is all I need. My pain is gone. It disappeared with the road lines on those back roads.

Now, it's on to the biggest hearts I've ever known. I can give them the me they deserve, fully happy, the girl they love, and I love. Hello optimism, it's good to be back.

Frankenstein. Honest Horror Story.

Call me crazy, but for once the source of my inspiration comes from something introduced to me in school. Granted, it IS the product of English class, one that would naturally spark the writing process. My inspiration came to me within the pages of a classic, Frankenstein. I didn't expect to thoroughly enjoy a book required for school, but the further I get into it, the more I find myself in awe. In any fragile state of emotion, words speak to you in the strangest of places. This book is my strange place, and one of the sole source of small comfort I have found in a really awful time.

I know what you may be thinking, don't people call Frankenstein a horror story? Well, yes. I guess it's misleading to say the book itself has me captivated. Rather, the language has me amazed. The honesty the characters show in their speech and written word floors me. While we express emotion today, I'll grant that much, we fail in comparison to the beautiful expression Shelley uses. A father is broken over the loss of his child, and the complete helpless passion that he expresses in his letter to his estranged oldest is absolutely heartbreaking, and shockingly refreshing. He is exposed and vulnerable, and unashamed to make it known.

Why is it that today that we so often refuse to swallow our pride? The grieving say "I'm sad," "Why did this happen to me?" and "I miss them so much." But the grieving in Frankenstein tear their hearts out of them, and literally sicken themselves with grief. They die from loss. They write long, extensive letters of complete and total despair. Their tears don't dry and they don't attempt to make petty comforts. This is the grieving process at its most honest.


So much is lost when we force our emotions into pre-sized packing boxes.

To You.

Written 1/1/09:

This is me, feeling a brand of fierce I didn't know I had in me. No, I don't hate you, and yes, I'd love to forgive you, but I'm in no hurry to play nice. What you did was low, and I deserved better than 'I'm sorry' in the form of some offhand drunken texts. I can't take that as sincere, just like I could never take you seriously, good time boy. I think someday you'll make a great friend to me, but I wish I hadn't put my hurt in your hands as more.

You let me down; you proved everyone right and made a fool of me and the you I'd become proud of. You proved once again that I am nothing but the nice girl that repeatedly gets used and taken advantage of. But I won't waste my time feeling sorry for myself, because eventually I know someone will see past that, and not use my sunny tendencies. That just wasn't you; consider my lesson learned.

I hope I have an explanation still to come from you. My mind can't process the fine line between sober, drunk, honest, and imagined. Help me out if you have the guts to face what you've done. But I'd understand if you chose to run away and ignore it instead. It's be the easy way out, and I wouldn't put it past you. I hope you can at least prove me wrong there, but I don't know if you will.

Heat of the Moment

I am blindsided, knocked from princess to slave. You don't recover from that kind of spill in no time. I've got bruises that will take time to heal. If you even come around playing curious boy, boking my injuries with sticcks in word and thought, you will be sorry. I'm a nice girl, but I won't let you use me anymore. What's left of my pride is mine, locked away to entrust to someone who won't pour it out like sour liquor. You wasted my time and my virtue. You tried to break me and immature me. Baby, I can reverse you.

She's A Lady.

This and the two posts before it were all written over break, not today. I just finally got to a computer to type them. They're in order, all written on the second or third. I was going to post this one in my music blog, since it's based on a song, but I decided while I was on a roll to go ahead and put it here. Maybe it'll grace both. That's all I got.

Baby, don't return to me if you think that I'm not worth your time.

Come back, come back to me, and I'll take you gladly.

I hate feeling both. Encapsulated within the lines of the very same song and encompassing my heart, it's amazing how words written by another can speak so true. To an innocent bystander, She's A Lady seems off the wall. To wish away and want for your own all at once- it seems impossible. But I'm breathing proof that it burns in human hearts and creates complete ruin. Really, I admire Forever The Sickest Kids' ability to put something so painful into a song so catchy. They made danceable music out of the soundwaves that have me gasping for air.

To be blunt, I'm stupid. Stupid to let words of hope flow into a situation I should regard as completely hopeless. So many keep my head in their skulls, with reminders of reality that I'd rather not ignore. So why does my brain drift? Why do I let myself miss it? I should listen better.

But only I know what I have felt, and that singularity has me feeling claustrophobic. I am the only victim; I am the only one with the power to deliver your verdict. I don't want this on my shoulders, but it's mine alone to carry fully. Thank every star in heaven for the four that have put their backs under my burden with me; I am breathing under its weight because of them. But to those same saviors, I'm sorry if I disappoint you. I'm sorry if I give in to some charm, or if I let my nature compromise the bitter honesty I feel and should express.

With my weakness in front of my face, written in words, I hope it's easier to overcome it. Only this imminent moment in time will tell. I will do my best to solve the mess of my mind, and I don't know what will be the best way to do that yet. All I know is that I will do what my instincts tell me is right, and I will, I WILL see that my answers are answered acceptably. I won't compromise what I need. I will get the completion I need, and that is all I'll promise, to my saviors especially. Everything else, well, it's up to time, chance, and fate.

Time to roll the dice.

Words.

It smells like rain. The road's dark; the car's a little too warm.

The setting for my downer thoughts is doing nothing to encourage a happy haze. No less that when all else fails, sleep eludes. Music speaks volumes, some too loud for my tender ears, but I can't turn them down. Shuffle is a gamble. Song one reminds me of you; song two reminds me I should forget you. Song three playfully addresses promiscuous sex, and four, making a getaway. The routine goes on. Some send daggers to my heart and some make me feel strong, almost healed.

Are we this malleable? Thoughts form around atmosphere like clay in warm hands. I wish I could set a song in my head and hum to its tune, determining my own sensation. Instead, I skip the songs you like (or at least try to) and try to find a jam that doesn't speak to me at all. I want just one song to be completely absent of a line, phrase, or melody that makes me feel. The relatable power of music makes this impossible. A line sparks fresh thought; a riff bites at my memory, and I am ripped wide open once again.

This is my musical selection, and this is me exposed because of it. I absorb each blow with the strength of a boxer; I have found my violence. So I can't throw a punch. But with every blow I take from my musical companion, I learn from its strategies. While unable to inflict much more than a scratch visibly, I am capable of stirring emotional catastrophe. Words on the tip of my tongue could be fatal if I let them roll off. This is my poison, and this is where I am lethal. My strength isn't my muscle; it's in the words I shelter and thoughts I spill to silent paper scraps and white screens. Unleashed to opposing eyes, my words could be pain. If I ever lost my careful control, the kindness I value, I'd hurt the people around me.

But it's best I shelf my words in neat rows in my mind. There's a fine line between sugarcoating and just saying what is necessary, nothing more. More hurts, and more ruins. I will use my words for good. There's no good in picking your battles just to relentlessly obliterate those who fight for the other side. Call me a coward, old-fashioned, or both, but I believe in the power of speech and words. And I think acknowledging that is the only way to keep the peace, or at least what's left of it.

When I Get Home.

I wish I could write something bold enough to deserve the title "When I Get Home, You're So Dead." But my story just won't end up with the audacity to be daring enough for a death threat. Always mild, always tempered; I never really allow myself to react, to really fully react. This has me wondering if and when I will finally just break, allow myself to be visibly weak to more than just three or four sets of all knowing eyes.

But instead I write my words and give them watered down titles, my "When I Get Home, You're So Forgiven" is inevitable it seems. When I get home, your face in front of mine. The eyes I've trained myself to reflect in, the ears I've decorated with gifts and idle words. Oh, my when I get home isn't bold. I'll be much to proud to let my raw emotions show, because my safe interior tells me that the moments won't be enough when the afterlife embarrassment hits.

We'll see what happens, if I will break my level-headed manner, or smile in its nature. Whichever is meant to be will prevail; whichever it takes to spill my heart to the effect I deserve. As of now, not even I know which is taking the lead.