"Moral Insanity"

Another prompt has urged me to write about a time I pampered myself....here goes!


About a year ago in my psychology class we were learning about positive reinforcement, and I chose to reward myself for giving five genuine compliments each day with twenty minutes of listening to Hans Zimmer before all of my homework was done. Now I know this sounds crazy, but this was quite the reward. I was booked with homework from A.P. History and other classes while trying to apply for multiple scholarships, keep up on my chores, and spend a decent amount of family time with all eight members. I'm really not complaining, and I know that several students worked a lot harder than me last year, but that was my schedule and with it being so busy, Hans was a great reward, positive indeed.

Anyway, back to my original point, when I finally was able to listen to Hans Zimmer, this was the first night of reinforcement mind you, I made it a big event. I cleaned my room, laid out my special blanket, made some tea, lit some candles, and even put on my best pajamas. I laid on my bed, closed my eyes, and let the music play quite loudly. Sadly, within the first two minutes - no exaggeration - I was struck with guilt and anger. There were so many things I should have been doing! I keep thinking how I needed to work out, maybe do a few extra chores, get ahead in my studies, talk to my parents, fill out another scholarship application, so many things! I walked to my door and was ready to head out but stopped myself, thinking that my best work will not be up to par if I don't take a second to sit back and reward myself. It's only twenty minutes and it's helping me become a little bit more healthy psychologically.

It's always like that...whenever I take an hour long bath, play my flute for an extra twenty minutes, watch a movie...my old friend Guilt sits by me and wraps her arms around me, gnawing my mind like the gadfly she is. Don't get me wrong, I pamper myself all the time, too much at times, given all the preparation I should be doing for college and jobs and what not. Either way, I cannot escape Guilt's hold but I did listen to Hans every night for about a week, regardless of how bad I felt.




There you have it! I know you want to pamper yourself now, and don't worry, I have a few Hans Zimmer CD's if you'd like to listen to one. You deserve the break after all, my vast and endless readers you. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!! 

"Iris"

Hello once more! I wrote this at random with no particular inspiration, so I hope you enjoy it!





Tomorrow I'll wake up and coffee will be there. Tomorrow I'll open my eyes and hear nothing. Tomorrow I will be... .... .... ..... .............?

I couldn't answer this. I wake up and breathe what seems to be possibility. What will I be today? The story of my life seems to not have changed much. I find answers as many times as I develop questions while the coffee brews and the nothing resonates. A writer should understand better.

Iris told me this five months ago to the date, i.e. the day she left. She looked straight at me, smiled, and said exactly that. Verbatim. A writer should know better. I hate that, the assumption that a writer must be omnipotent, all knowing, perceptive to the point of being psychic. My knowledge is as limited as anyone's. I pick up the scent of ink, enjoy the flavor of small things like scrambled eggs without salt and pepper, see intricacies in simple items such as a the uneven bumps in the texture of a basketball, but I lack the knowledge of how to properly love someone. I can't know everything she wants or feels.

Iris didn't expect me to though, I don't think. She saw us as trial run, an experience she couldn't keep but couldn't pass up. I get it. I didn't exactly promise to be exciting or even intriguing. I just said "Let's do it."

I'm not heart-broken or anything. I just realized how much I haven't appreciated anything. Or maybe I've been appreciating too much. Like yesterday, when I found this black-beaded hair clip. All I could do was stare at the way the beads reflected the colors of my hair, my sofa, my vase on the living room table, all the red, blue, and green tones. I know it's silly, but I was fascinated.

I guess it doesn't matter. This journal seems pointless anyway. Tomorrow I'll wake up and there will be coffee. Tomorrow I will be...





That's all I have. Thanks for reading, and remember to keep writing!!

"Time"

I was inspired, so I wrote a love poem. Sorry to those who hate these corny declarations, and I speak to no one specific when I say this, but it had to be done. Here goes!

- A Declaration of Love -

If I were to die this very night

A full heart shall testify

How I have lived, how I loved

And how I should like to lie

With you, beside you, forever

Away from everything

For only in your arms am I alive

And only your lips I am feeling

Softly, kindly, reassuringly

I am beautiful under your light

Yet such beauty is greatly outmatched

By the radiance of you on those Saturday nights

If I were to die this very night

I would be at peace, thinking of you

Eternally am I in love

Eternally will I live for you

My very breath has been stolen

By your gracious, warming heart

And I know that I am transcending

Into your soul as the days make us part

Therefore, we are never separate

But one, for such love bonds us still

Fused together, we'll thrive

Love forever, we will

Thanks for reading, and remember, keep writing!!! 

"And I Thought My Jokes Were Bad"

Hello again! It has been a while since I've blogged, but don't worry, this time it will strictly be creative pieces and not notes from novels on how to write. I am excited to begin, so I'm just going to get write down to it. A creative prompt challenged me to write something beginning with "The greatest tragedy is __________," so I will take that challenge and see what comes out....It's been a while so I'm a little rusty. Wish me luck! (and we'll be ending our session of "too many cliches" for the night, thank you).

The greatest tragedy is high school, no question. In the event that you may not remember high school, or you remember it so you think it’s the same as when you attended, let me tell you what it’s really like. There are two kinds of students now, survivors and victims. Those who are victims are allegedly pitiful, but I see them as my friends, my comrades in arms, my soul mates. They find beauty in the art of education, the many things one can gain from (appropriate) relationships with teachers, the value of homework, and the development of the mind and personality that occurs due to hard work and dedication. I know, I lost you a couple sentences ago, and don’t worry, I’m sure you don’t know anyone like that. However, I feel obligated to inform you that a lot of students feel like that. There are always those kids who hide what they think, and their appreciation for the school, simply because it isn’t cool. Gratitude does not make you a survivor. When I say victims, I don’t necessarily mean victims to the vultures of high school. I mean we are victims to our own way of thinking, our way of life. We take a lot from other students, yes, but we also have the perception to understand why they are doing it.

            To be a survivor, one has to understand the value of style, social life, and extra curricular activities. Believe it or not, the more you do after and before school, the more of a survivor you become. High school is no longer about academic standing or simply football and cheerleading, oh no…it’s something much bigger than that. The famous cliques are those who are in the student senate, religious groups, every sport possible, any kind of drama involvement, and community service. If you find that you have no time to do any of your homework, you know you’re a survivor, you’re accepted; you’re what high school is all about. 

            Though it may appear that my tone is somewhat…hmm…critical or even judgmental, I really do not mean to pass it off like that. No, I take that back. The greatest tragedy is high school. You know, I think we all really are victims. We fight our own insecurities constantly. I look at the president of the senior class and I think to myself, “Do you really have it all sorted out? Your hair is much longer than mine, your eyes are much bigger, and your waist is certainly much smaller, but does that mean that you don’t need a smile from someone at random just to make you feel like it’s going to be okay?”

I know that answer. I’ve always known the answer. I am a victim among victims, prey to our own worries, responsibilities, and desires. I strive among the striving, I thrive among the thriving, yet still I easily sort out the victims from the survivors. I am a survivor. So is she. She did what I couldn’t, yet I loved as she couldn’t. There I go again, separating us.

            The greatest tragedy is high school. We separate what we will, we judge what we will, we hurt what we will, not knowing yet that what we do really does define us. What I love, what I write, what I read, what I see, what I hear, whatever has ever touched any part of my life no matter how small or insignificant, has come to define me. Does this make me like everyone else? Do I want to be like everyone else?

            The greatest tragedy is high school. For anyone who has had to go through without someone to relate to or tell their silly thoughts to, for anyone who has had so many friends that they just can’t find enough time to spare for all of them, for the prettiest girl in the school and the nerdiest boy in the school, for the girl hidden under too many pounds to feel beautiful to the boy hidden inside too many lockers to feel like he can hold his boyfriend’s hand, high school is a tragedy. Yet we survive, strong victims, unwilling to break. And that is the beauty of our youth.

There you have it...my first returning blog. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!!