Just Me This Time

It's time for my bon voyage, my final goodbye. I know I'll end up sounding dramatic or something as I keep writing, so I just want to say straight out that I love what I have become as both a writer and a person. I look at my inspirations like my writing instructor and my friends who have acted as coaches, and I know that in a way I have taken bits of them and incorporated them in my writing. I can't imagine reaching levels that my teacher is at, but I know that if I can get close to her, I will be fulfilled and incredibly proud. Tomorrow will be a very hard day to get through, and I am enjoying pretending that it really isn't my last day. I know that I will still keep in touch, but it's hard to imagine not knowing that I'll be back soon to seek guidance or just have a good conversation. I've grown up, and it wasn't easy but it wasn't too hard either. There was an immense support system that never disappointed me along the way and I've come to love my teachers and my friends as they recur in my stories and in my reminiscent mind. I cannot believe it's actually time to leave, but I know that I can't see this as anything but a great opportunity. My mentors have given me every inch of energy they could in preparing me in the real world, some sharing their academic knowledge, and some sharing their life lessons, their smiles, their criticism, and their faith. It is an amazing feeling to know that someone believes in you completely. I am luckier than most, and I know that I've been blessed by my life at high school. Ah, look at me. I told you I'd sound dramatic...It's just that these four years have made such a large impact on who I am, and my peers and teachers have seen me grow up into the Sadina I am today. I don't think I can thank them enough. I have to stop writing for the sake of not crying, and I want to save my special messages for the ones who truly deserve to know how much they mean to me, but I know that tomorrow will be full of emotions, some appreciative, poignant, sentimental, and resentful of leaving. Either way, I know that I am starting my journey in the best condition that I could ask for, and I will never forget the ones who moved me so deeply, immortalizing them in the only way I know how, literature.

"Like A Dog Chasing Cars"

"Like A Dog Chasing Cars"

It's difficult because
Both options seem right
I'm trapped in the ridicule
Of what I made
I've stored my dreams
In a decorated box
For too long have I
Allowed this box
To remain inside me.
It's difficult because
I know that one option is wrong
I know that it's wrong
I've stored my moral
Somewhere I can't find
I didn't mean to lose it.
It's difficult because
Both people inside are
Waiting for something special
Disappointment meets them
I am lost with my morals
Hidden in that small box.
It's difficult because
Tomorrow doesn't feel new
It feels used, borrowed
Stored away in a tiny room
Only to be new when
I'm ready for cleansing
And storage in a little box
Seemed the easiest solution
It's difficult because
That box defines me
It shapes me
Into the square that I am
Going round and round
Stretching the corners
Rebelling against the sharp turns
Crying against immovable walls
It's difficult because
I've lost this box
This box that defines me
This box that defines me.





I just thought I'd try my hand at abstract poetry again. Thanks for reading, and remember to keep writing!

"One Simple Idea"

Lilies. Everywhere I go, I can't seem to shake those darn lilies. They are in the bouquet of the this girl who just won the award. They are in the corsages that I see young teens wearing when they go out to dinner. They are in the vase at my grandmother's house. In the garden. By the side of the road. Everywhere.

It's funny, because people always say that lilies smell like death. This makes sense, I think...lilies tend to be the main flower at funerals. Still, I always thought they smell too vibrant for funerals, too passionate. They smelled like Valerie. She always had lilies, whether she had drawn them on her notebook or kept them strung like christmas lights in her room. In my cliche teenager mind, I liked to picture her in her white dress, her hair swept to the side, a lily tucked behind her ear. I know, cliche.

She's coming home tomorrow, and I have to admit I'm a little nervous. I haven't seen her since she got with that script writer. He's probably surrounding her now with lilies now, saying stupidly poetic things. Ugh.

Here's what I think: we trade the things that we love for the idea of something we might love. We look to the left or right instead of just looking straight ahead. I traded her for some notion of a girl that I could get in the future, something to satisfy what I truly think just cannot be satisfied. Maybe that's what makes us human, the constant want for something. I don't even think at this point that I want to feel satisfied. After being used this craving for so long, it's hard to imagine not feeling it. I know I traded her in. I traded all the lilies and the smiles and the white dresses. I guess this is what regret looks like, a large pool of lilies.





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

"I'm Not A Hero"

It's just not worth it. You try and you keep trying, but he is always disappointed, always finding something new to be angry about. You can live out your days, thinking that today was the day you put all of your effort into it. Today was the day that you really believed you gave them your all. You are so busy protecting them for what seems like years, that by the time they are actually look away from their own reflection, they just see what's left of you. They take everything. He took everything. I feel emaciated, eaten away by the attempts I gave just to make him smile, just to make sure that he was going to be okay. But tomorrow is a new battle. The next day is always another battle. A few months ago my armor became so heavy that I had to take it off, regretfully so, because his mind took a new twist last week. Everything's a tragedy for him, and he has no mind for how barren he may leave me in the end. Not that I mind helping him. He is everything to me, so it only makes sense that he would take everything. Still, I feel myself growing resentful, afraid of a future of all of this. I thought we could grow together. I thought maybe we could make a new start. No. No, I forgot he doesn't work like that. No matter how much progress we make, he takes one hit and he's digressed further than I can recognize. There are times when he won't even come up for air, and that's probably what frightens me the most. Should I resent him for this? Is it so selfish of him to be afraid of life, afraid of not being special. We all want to be unique, but he's different. His heart seems to break if he isn't the one shining, at least through my eyes. I can't tell him every second that he's shining though, that's just not possible. I'm trying. I really am trying. It's just never enough, and I see us dying together. This is dangerous, though I'm only playing with the coals that are left over from a once brilliant fire. I hate that I even think like this. It isn't his fault that he thinks like this ... but I'm still sick every time he thinks about her, how every tear is somehow related back to her. I wish that I could escape this but take him with me. I know that I can, but then what is the point in escaping? He's not going to change, but I won't either. I really thought I could save him, be his hero. Disappointed fire. Disillusioned ashes.





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

"Stone In My Heart"

I'm angry, and that in itself makes me angry. I don't remember the last time I was angry like this. Bitterness sets in, and I feel my hands shaking, the blood rushing to my cheeks, like a bull ready to rage at the red-shaking moron. I can't believe I did this. I knew to do my best, and I slacked off. I wish I could take my frustration out on someone, some victim willing to let me ruin their lives. I know I don't really want to hurt anyone, but it would be nice to have the option. No, I would just feel bad after. Either way, I'm just angry! I can feel this anger pulling me down, resting yet building in my heart. I can't stand the sight of her, the very thought of smelling her perfume or seeing her hair braided to the side like that. Who is she to think that she has the right to talk to me? What makes her think that everything's okay just because I know how to fake a smile. I feel like my blood is literally boiling! I give her ten more minutes to be in here, but after that, I'm not responsible for what I do.

I'm a pathological liar. I try to find things that seem comic or all too serious and mess around with the facts, twist the plot a little in order to get the pot boiling. Truth is not what I want. Truth is the cousin of every malicious thing I have ever known. Truth is what gave me this scar from my mother, what rests on every dollar that is stuffed into her undergarments, reminding her that she is pathetic, scraping bottom for a vision that is exactly that, a vision. Lies protect us; they embrace us while we cling to their warm words, promising to surround us no matter what. They lie within us, like a stone, serving as a foundation, in our heart. Truth slips away, whereas lies multiply, promising their company for as long as I'm willing to allow them. I set no time limit to this, no hopes for stopping. Wish for tomorrow, hide today...my motto. No, it's not really. But I guess the point is I should never know.

I cry more than I should. I know at this point, it doesn't mean anything. I just think that the only healthy way of expressing myself is to keep crying, let everyone know what I'm feeling. That's what my friend does, anyway, and it always seems to work for her, so why not for me. I wish that there was a guidebook for this, when to cry and when to just let my eyes glisten with water threatening to run out. The effect is different every time, depending on the situation, but normally I get the attention I need. I cry for reasons that I don't even understand. I guess that makes me less genuine that what I would have wanted when I first started this thing, but then again, I was a different person then. That was before my heart was weighed down, almost clogged by something disturbingly heavy. Now I breathe in life differently. It's all a tragicomedy to me. I'm what you call a typical high schooler. If not, I'm different, and that makes me cry too. Both ends promise gold.

I laugh all the time. Pain means nothing when faced with laughter. Laughing is the cure to anything, but most importantly it saves you from getting hurt. I laugh when it's not even called for. My laughter, varying in pitch defines me. I hate the sound of someone crying or screaming, but I laugh it off and urge them to do the same. My teachers are always getting angry at me, laughing during a movie about the Holocaust or laughing too loudly, even when something is genuinely funny. Does this matter though? I'm safe and functional. I can  get out of bed in the morning and not want to puke at what I see. I'm not disgusted by myself to the point of tears when I try to fall asleep every night, though my stomach often hurts from laughing too hard. My doctor says I have a stone in my heart, blocking the emotions that I work so hard at laughing off. When he told me I would life with no humor, maybe even meaning, I laughed and told him to try smiling a little before he tells his next patient they have stones in their vital organs. As I walked out into the waiting room, I watched a little boy struggle to get out of his chair in order to comfort his mom who was sobbing two chairs down from him, laughing all the while.

I live. I breathe. I survive. I try my best to hone my anger at the things I can change, the things that pervade our society like bigotry and fear of ineffective products and lifestyles. I lie to protect my loved ones, but I say the truth more than I should, hoping that someone will learn from my actions and follow them with new-found compassion. I cry when someone is cruel, when someone is merciful, or when someone is purely beautiful, but I also save my tears for those who deserve it, allowing each tear to make me become stronger. I learn from each drop of water I release, hoping to make tomorrow better for those who have earned these tears. I laugh until my sides burn, aiming to spread cheer, or at least make someone smile alongside me. I laugh to absorb beauty, burn the moment into my memory so that I may smile at it in the later years. I feel. I feel. Empathy is the motif of my life, running into me with every person I meet. For them do I laugh, cry, lie, confess, become angry or unjust. For them do I live. For me do I live. I live. I breathe. I survive. I feel. There is more to this life than me. There is more than us. There is life, and there is our life. My strength goes to this: the hope for a smile covered in tears, blistering with anger and happiness, bursting with laughter, and masking the malicious lies with the delicious truth. My love, my life, goes the demolition and acceptance of this stone in my heart.





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

"Now We Are Free"

Robert, 

I know I said I'd come back. I bet they're all shaking their heads at you, saying that they told you. I won't say I'm sorry for that, because I'm really not. You knew I wasn't strong enough. I know, you hate me, you hate my weakness. I guess I hate me too a little. I thought I could stay; I thought maybe you were enough. I really wanted you to be enough. I did love you. I suppose that means nothing now though. I can't even write this letter without adding "I" to each sentence. Do you see now? I told you, I need to take of me, and I here I am, writing about myself saying it's time for me to go. I hope you're happy with me gone. I hope you finally write your book, make your father proud, and sing a little more. Finish that painting you've been working on, but this time, paint with all reds instead of the blue that I suggested. You've always looked best in blue, but I know your color is red. Just go with it. Be you. Goodbye, Robby. 

Rae.

Rae reread her letter. She read again. Once more. There was so much she still wanted to say, but she held it back, knowing that it would nothing to benefit him. What was the point of this letter even? Only half of it really said what she wanted. Of course she meant every word, but there was so much she wanted to explain, to say to him, just to let him know what he's done, how many years he wasted in anger about trivial and meaningless things. Five years from now, would those fights even have mattered? Were they worth the grudges and the constant reminding of each other's flaws. She wished she hadn't have pointed out every one of his flaws whenever they fought. She wished he hadn't have brought up all of her past "sins" whenever she opened her mouth. She wished she would have understand when he said someone was pretty, he just thought they were pretty and that was the end. She was his girl, and nothing meant more to him. She wish she would have recognized that she was his prize, that she was all that mattered in the scheme of things, that each compliment he offered out to other people was to make them smile as he brightened the world a little, absorbing the beauty that life had to offer. She wished she had seen some of that beauty too, and when she finally did, she wished she didn't resent it for not being created by or because of her. She wished, oh she wished. 

Rae reread her letter one last time, looking for something that would say any of this. Disgust rose in her throat, overcoming her mindset and blocking all compassion for the situation. She couldn't stand where she was right now. Overweight, bitter, never saying what she's thinking, angry at her family, ready to move on with life and cut all old connections. She had become that typical teenager in the poorly written ABC Family segments that she'd always hated. Even this revelation seemed cliche to her. In a way, she was happy for Robby and his chance to get away from her, all the emotional damage that she's packed and set carelessly on his shoulders the more they understood each other. She shouldn't have asked him to do all of that for her.She demanded too much, so when he fell short in her eyes, what else should she have expected? 

Rae licked the envelope, sealing the letter that would free them both from all of this. No, it wouldn't, but Rae knew that. She looked at her alarm clock, which was eagerly beeping to wake her up for school. After tucking the letter into her backpack, she got into the shower, not stopping in front of the mirror before stepping in. 

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

"Not Yet"

I walk into an empty room
And smile at what's sitting there
Across the hall and down two doors
He's on the green, suede chair
He crosses his eyes back and forth
Pleading for time to stand still
I beg him to come away with me
Yet with hope he has yet to refill

Run away with me, I cry
Fending seconds off with my arms
He laughs, he quips, he's shivering
Disowning me and my charms
He's tired, I know, and disillusioned
But then again, so am I
I feel my feet dragging, my eyes looking down
I wish time could satisfy

I walk into an empty room
And smile at what's sitting there
Across the hall and down two doors
He's on the green, suede chair




I thought I'd try an abstract poem, another experiment. Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing!

"Idyll's End"

"It's not going to work Thomas. Let it go."

"It's just for a few hours, no one will know."

"I don't care about reputation; I care about time! I have to write this essay and then write a speech for my sisters wedding all by five o'clock tomorrow morning, and it's already 11:40 p.m. The answer is no."

"Can't you just act like a girl for once?"

"Gee, your cliche almost inspired me but I'm still going to have to go with no. Go away Tom. Seriously."

"I'm coming back in an hour to help you write your speech then, and we'll talk after that."

Carly rolled her eyes, resenting the notion that Tom actually thought he could help her with something so personal. She was overwhelmed by deadlines, dragged down by the planning she's done for the wedding and the homework load her professor graced her with. She asked for this, she knew, but she still resented the pressure it created. Loudly slurping the last drop of coffee from her cup, Carly got up to make more, accidentally stepping on a Hershey's bar she knocked down from the desk. 

Three cups of coffee and an hour later, Thomas came back holding a napkin with  several scribbles on it. 

"Really, Tom? You planned the speech? You don't even know my sister that well."

"But I know you."

"Yes, but you have no idea what memories I want to include or what her middle name is even."

"Will you just look at it?"

"You are wasting valuable minutes, but yes, just to get you to go away."

I looked at the napkin and found a terrible drawing of a movie theater with my name as the headlines.

"Tom, they won't be there anymore. It's almost midnight. They have left, and I missed my audition."

"No, Carly, there are still people waiting in line to audition. Go now! Seriously. All of your professors say that you are amazing, and I've been impressed with you several times myself. Now go! If it takes longer than twenty minutes, go back home and be grateful that you took a chance."

I listen to Tom. I walk to the movies. I stand on the stage for my audition. I throw-up on the stage. I don't get a call back.

I hate you Thomas.

I'm sorry that one was a bit depressing, but I wanted to get the college feel. Just an experiment. That's all for now though! Thanks for reading and remember to keep writing! 

"A Small Measure of Peace"

Tonight I'll find comfort as I rest beside the fire. I'll look through books of poetry with my reading glasses set low on my nose, my feet curled up between the arm of the couch and the cushion. The low glow of the fire will reflect off of the coffee mug I made some years ago in high school out of clay. I'll notice the whipped cream slowly melting into the hot chocolate, swirling as small air bubbles form then disappear. My book will smell like oak, after being shut so long in the trunk my grandfather used when he was a small child. My cat will be happily curled, laying in a small ball in the middle of the chair to my left. Little sounds will escape his throat as he quietly snores.
Tonight I'll find comfort as I read beside the fire. A bowl of chocolate truffles will be sitting on the mosaic table in front of me. I'll smell the chocolate, the sweet tang. I'll happily lick my fingers before turning the page because I some of the truffle melted while I took to long to enjoy the way the chocolate inside melted on my tongue. After turning the page, I'll become enraptured by a new poem, delicately tracing the way the words rise and fall in rhythmic beauty, stirring within me my sense of empathy and adventure. I'll imagine the poet, dipping his carefully crafted quill into a pot of ink, then carefully scratching the tip against the paper, creating a poignant and almost hypnotizing melody.
Tonight I'll find comfort as I listen beside the fire. A single violin will strike, demanding absolute silence as it swells in passion and volume. A soft piano will dance beside it, timidly turning. Soon, a compilation of brass will triumph, daring the violin to take control. Other strings will be encouraged, allowing the company to play alongside.
Tonight, I'll find comfort as I survived the chaos, acknowledged the day, and am now preparing for the kind and merciful night.





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

"A Radical Notion"

            In Gail Carson Levine’s instructional novel, I think it was called Writing Magic, but don’t quote me on that, she said that even when you are absolutely stuck, just keep writing. No matter what, she said, keep writing. My teacher in my creative writing course used to say that too. She’d always say it’s time to write and if we can’t think of anything, write about how we can’t think of anything. I did that once. We had to write slam poetry and I had no idea what to write so I wrote about how I didn’t like the situation by making a satire of what slam poetry is and then saying I didn’t write one even though I just presented it as a slam poem. My teacher gave me full points, even extra for having memorized it, so it ended up okay. The point is, I am now sitting here after forty-five minutes of staring at a blank sheet of paper and decided to write about how I don’t know what to write. I’m sorry if this bores you, but to be honest, I’ve never actually written about a blank idea so I wanted to try this for myself.

            I really do want to write something. I went to Hope College over the weekend, the college I am attending in the fall for a major in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing, and I realized how I really need to get going. I looked around at the ten students who claimed they were also creative writers, and I became so determined to practice, to be able to stand just as tall as I read my work to the class. However, I know that being a writer means practicing – a lot. I am aiming towards realistic fiction, and in that I’m really starting to find my voice, but I still need to work on it. I just wish I knew what to write. I detest blanking out, with every fiber of my being. Normally, I see several items, moments, or reactions that I want to write about so badly, but then it all slips away. Even if I write something down to remember to write about it later, I can’t seem to remember what I was going to say, or why it was so special to me then.

            I truly believe that nothing is more annoying to a writer than the inability to call out words, or at least words of significance or meaning. I miss my warriors and knights, but I just can’t seem to involve them personally with the readers. I should work on that as well. For now though, I really want to practice realistic fiction. Then again, why can’t I practice both? Well anyway, I’m stuck; for now though, it feels good to be writing, even if the entire passage is about nothing. 

"Catatonic"

Alright, today is a day to remember embarrassing moments, and though mine may not seem very bad to you, they are mortifying to me...or at least at the time they were. 

The teacher is sitting silently at her desk, as she does every day, not even looking up at the students to see what they are doing. I look at my surrounding students and wonder how they could possibly be still working on this assignment considering how it was due at the beginning of the hour. What will I do for an entire class period? I can't work ahead because she discourages it and won't even hand out the study guide or the reading assignment. I don't have any homework with me, and I left my reading book down in my locker, assuming I would have no time to read it during class anyway. I wish she gave out bathroom passes, then I could wake myself up a little by walking around, maybe even splash some cold water on my face. Mm, cold water sounds so good right now. I wonder what the time the boy in front me's practice is tonight. It's cruel how surrounded I am by football players right now, even though there are five girls grouped together on the other side of the room. Isn't it enough that I get trouble from them just for being a geek? Now she has to make a seating chart where there are six of them enclosing me? Still, they don't seem to even notice I am here, which I am very grateful for. Ugh, my eyes keep closing. I hate falling asleep in class. Then again, I didn't really get much sleep last night ... maybe if I just closed my eyes for a few minutes ... it's not like the teacher will notice anyway. I wish I could talk to my best friend in the front of the class. She doesn't have anything to do either, and she looks like she wants to talk. I guess I'll just have to catch up with her at lunch. I love hearing her stories, how excited she looks when she tells me them, and how they are all so personal. Gah, I can't keep these darn eyes open! I'm so tired, and the room is so quiet! I... I... breathe out slowly. 

Mmmm, Mmmm, Mmmmm, MMMMMMMM!!! 

I literally jump in my seat, my body shaking with surprise. Oh my goodness, I literally woke myself up! I moaned and woke myself up! Why are my hands on both sides of my face, and how long has my mouth been open with the tiniest amount of saliva coming out!? Oh no...oh no no no....please tell me they didn't hear that. Oh crap, they are all looking at me. Every single one, even the teacher. What? Have you never seen a sleeping girl before? I wasn't dreaming anything like that, I swear...I just make noises. I really wasn't dreaming anything..it was all black. I don't even feel like I fell asleep. I could swear I just shut my eyes. I've always made sounds in my throat, ever since I was a little girl. My friend in the front is staring at me as well, giving a small little knowledgeable smile that acknowledges how embarrassed I must be, and how terrible this will be when I take in the full scale of it after.  Why didn't she wake me up!? What kind of friend is she!? When class is over I'm going to kill her. Oh stop snickering, football jerks! Don't you know how stupid I feel! My cheeks feel as if they are actually on fire! This is why I hate having sleepovers, because I always make noises in my sleep. Ugh, I hate high school. When will this be over? 

***Disclaimer: I no longer hate high school, but this was a true story. I didn't kill my friend though, and she is still my best today, though her tendency to not tell me things before I am fully embarrassed by them has not faded. 

"A Dark Knight"

Sorry this is posted so late. I've had this written but didn't post into the site. The prompt challenged me to write something starting with "the sun bows as pain vibrates," so here I go!

The sun bows as pain vibrates. It's a timid bow, but not as timid as the shaking of my form, the fear building inside when I think about deep this scar will be. My light, as I so often  called her, is asking for the impossible. Can I make this promise to her? I vibrate again, heart palpitating with anxiety, knowing that here before me stands a choice. I read about this in my novels, and I hear about it in several songs, never expecting the cliché to actually reveal itself right before me, yet here she is, asking me to make a choice. I lose all feeling but the soft tingling in the tips of my finger. My vision is not compromised in the heat of the decision, but my heart is at least a little heavy. No, my heart is what is weighing me down, why I am on the floor rather than standing and looking her in the eyes. I hate this vulnerability, this weakness. I bow before her, when it is really her who is bowing to me, begging me, beseeching me. I am to be the knight of her heart, yet I can't even manage to speak. My tongue feels as if it may suffocate me, growing in size by the second. I am choking, coughing out warm crimson splotches, clinging to my red leather jacket, my hair surrounding both sides of face, the longer strands tickling my bare chest. I will leave. I will stay. It doesn't matter. I just have to look up. Look up! Now! 

The pain vibrates again, taunting me, even laughing at me in loud chortles. I can't stand this. The revulsion is so strong I feel as all visceral elements of me are longing to be free of the exterior cage, as if my skin is the only thing holding them in place. Even my metaphors make me feel disgusted. I have my words, dressed in elegant clothing, but my light, my life, is gone. She asked the impossible, and I wouldn't stand up. She asked for me. For what I wouldn't allow myself to be, and I watched her bow to the ground, lower than she should ever be. I watched her sink to the level of scum, to the level of absolute degradation and shame, to a place that stained her wings so fiercely that I could see the tips begin to burn, gritting my teeth and looking away. My sun has bowed, and I am left to always see her, my fingers cupping her chin while the salty liquid of her greatest fear daringly caressing my finger, leaving bloody tracts as they fall. 

"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!!  

"Red Warrior"

The prompt for tonight is to write a poem based around the metaphor "A Flourish of Hate." Here goes!

"Red Warrior"

Seething with misconceptions,

Injustice seems to reign

My courage is altered,

My pride adjusted,

My passion I dare not to feign

I write to these walls for comfort

Yet lust is my ultimate foe

Through carnal misreadings

And uncouth destruction

This cruelty I desire so

I read to create a sanctuary

Where hate flourishes above all

At long lengths I have tried

Yet no sense can be made

Of empathy's unbidden fall

In vain I have tried, 

To read and to write

This carnal destruction

Of hatred and lust

Yet oh what a worthy fight 

That's all I have for tonight, but thanks for reading. Remember, keep writing! 

"A Hard Teacher"

I feel it's time to return to the beautiful book Naming the World and the exercises included. Therefore, I opened up to a random page and found an exercise that dared me to write about the most shameful experience I've had, to shame myself while allowing myself to be redeemed in the end. To be honest, and at the risk of using cliches, this challenge hit pretty close to home, for I've been encountering a significant problem as of late. Before I write, I just want to make a little disclaimer that I know that my life is a very charmed one. I am not unaware of the opportunities I have that many others do not. I do not say this to be arrogant, but I do say this to clarify that no matter what I state, I know that I am so very lucky and blessed. I wouldn't wish my life to be anything other than what it is. However, I am a flawed character and will admit that in the name of writing. Here goes.

From the moment of my conception, my mother and I were inseparable. Mom said I was her "angel child," for I never gave her any problems during her pregnancy or during my childhood years. We did everything together, from dishes to laundry to visiting her friends. If I wasn't in her arms, I was writing notes asking her to cuddle or making her obscure gifts just to see her smile. I went out of my way everyday to tell my siblings to start on their work so that they wouldn't upset my mother. For anyone who knows me, this isn't a secret. I needed my mom. I told her everything, and she would confide in me as well. Our dependence, though unheard of for some families, was the most wonderful aspect of our lives. Coffee, recounting the day's events, and cleaning were the joys of our lives, and we relished in our need dearly.
Unfortunately, things change. I met someone, my dad needed his wife more, and the process of growing up took hold of us both. This separation, this choice of living our own lives, wasn't established with ease. Last year I found myself juggling A.P. classes, being in relationship, defining who I was, and spending family time. With infant nephews running around the house every weekend, other sisters returning from college or their lives with their beaus, and grandparents requiring vast amounts of attention, I was forced to realize that the friendship or routine that my mom and I once had must be toned down.
We stayed like this, missing each other and still conversing, but not on the scale we were used to. Then I began to separate a little more. As I made an effort to become a part of my relationship, I realized that in college it will only be me and my partner; I had to try to learn her, to give her the attention that a successful relationship required. At the risk of sounding incredibly juvenile, when one is in love - to the extent that he or she has been introduced, it becomes increasingly harder to be away from the cherished one. I became more busy with work, more weighed down by the stress of choosing colleges, driver's training, paying for graduation and college, paying for dances and all that came with it, maintaining my position as one of the top five in my class, and spending enough time with my five siblings. I became my own person, and that was not always a good thing. I resented myself for letting my chores be neglected, letting my cat be neglected, and more importantly, letting the most important family tie be neglected.
I needed Mom; I still need Mom. However, I didn't grant her time enough. Finally, it happened. As she was stirring the mix for lemon poppy seed muffins, she stated something that I had always feared. Another disclaimer: in no way do I mean this to degrade my mom, for she was right on all accounts and said it to help me rather than hurt me. The cruelest realization I have ever prevailed upon came in the form of her admittance that she no longer likes who I am, that I am no longer Dina, that I am not happy any more and it becomes more obvious in my eyes with each passing day. She claimed that I was losing myself, and that this new Sadina was not something that she could be okay with.
Naturally, this news was not taken lightly. I couldn't believe what she was saying to me. I tried to doubt her, tried to convince myself that she was merely stressed and couldn't possibly mean what she said. Alas, no reason could be made. I couldn't lie to myself, though I wanted to very much.
I had let my mother down.
And that was it. That was all I needed. It was this statement, and nothing more that I will always remember. I had been the "perfect daughter," the one who went above and beyond to ensure my mother's happiness. I had  been that girl in the family who everyone went to for their problems, everyone confided in just to get something off their chests. Yet no one came to me anymore. The disappointed and betrayed look in my mother's eyes still stains my memory, tainting my pride to a notable extent.
Perhaps I have spent too much time for myself. Yet how does one change their entire person? I supposed that  since I had done it once, I could do it again. It is to my disadvantage, though, that all attempts I make at reconciliation are not seen as I hoped they would be. No matter what I do now, the past mistakes are still there, screaming at us to remind us of their presence. I am not one who admits my faults easily. But the knowledge that I have let my best friend, my hero, my mother down...well that is too great a fault. I am deeply ashamed of my neglect, and though I would never really admit this to her, I truly cannot emphasize enough how I measure myself through her eyes. Is this a fault as well? I don't know. She seems to know me so well, it's hard to call her on a flaw of perception of such a character as me.
I know it's not too late though. I love who I am. I know that I can show her that I'm still Dina, still the person she needs me to be. I know that with enough time and perseverance, I will prove to her that she can still rely on me, that I am still there for her unconditionally.

Again, I do not mean to say this to reflect any negative image upon my mother, nor do I write this to evoke any form of sympathy for me. I merely write this as a true account of my most shameful experience. With this resolution comes fear that someone will read this and misinterpret what it was I meant to say. Nevertheless, I had to write this for me and for my mom. I am Sadina. I can do this because I have my mother's strength, gentleness, and determination to better myself. I can do this because I am her daughter.

"Psychological Recovery ... Six months"

Yet another writing prompt has stole my attention. The challenge today is to write something involving the line "the chest of childhood." Here goes.

He has an air about him that suggested he was internally happy. Though my life has not been a horrible one, I cannot deny that I have rarely seen this raw vision of happiness. I observed him, loved him for his ease-like smile. Too many times have I witnessed my reflection frowning at what it sees. The longing to be like him grew within me. I began to follow him.
Every day he took the same route, which involved purchasing a cup of decaf mocha coffee, grande sized; consuming an egg sandwich, super sized; resting on a bench, child sized; and reading an off-brand newspaper, business sized. He would then walk to a colorful building, lined in sky blue, grinning as he took the ride of the spinning door rather than entering the conventional door right next to it.
I never followed him into this building. I was too afraid that he would spot me and his smile would fade. What would I be without my inspiration remaining prominent? I needed to see this smile. I dreamed of it, longed for it, craved it when he was not there. He would then exit the building at 6:05 every night, check his watch, purchase another cup of coffee - only this time it would be a lite vanilla latte, and walk to his apartment - the walls full of neon-colored graffiti, conveying messages such as "Express yourself" and "The world is your oyster." What must it be like to surround yourself with such positive life, such vivacity? What passion is he filled with?
Then it happened.
He went about his usual day: coffee, egg, bench, read, walk to building. It was during this walk that the most unthinkable happened. He took one step to the right, rather than forward. One single step, to avoid a newly formed pothole before him. An approaching Buick did not expect this long stride toward the driver's direction. The car swerved, the man did not take notice, and the bones met the hood of the vehicle. Unable to react, I stood and observed his fall. The blood did not provoke any movement of my muscles. I was aghast, and therefore paralyzed as I gaped at my idol. I could see enough from where I stood. Death was nothing new in my life; in fact, it was expected. Because of this, I was able to stare with undisturbed eyes as I took note of his smile still present, his chest of childhood bearing a happy heart proudly, and his mind the purest, though simplest, I have had the opportunity to witness.
It has been six months, and this smile, his smile, is now carried on my face every day as I drink my coffee, eat my egg sandwich, sit on a small bench, read my newspaper, and walk into a colorful building, childishly spinning as I enter.

"Not In Blood, But In Bond"

I chose a very random writing prompt to do tonight from a random location on the internet, trying to get a crazy idea...or a challenging one. Therefore, the task is to write a poem that contains these lines in no particular order: "I tie the ribbon in a foolish way," "the delicious fragility of this travesty," and "where we still laugh and wish." Now, my first instinct is to write about someone who is visiting a common place where he/she and his/her friend use to sit and talk, but that friend died and now he/she is reminiscing. However, I think this is to easy, and I am determined - that's right, determined - to write something that takes a little bit to think of. Please harbor no expectations of incredible creativity, but I feel that small degree of creativity is still worth a mini-applause. Okay...here goes!

"Not In Blood, But In Bond"

I slump against the village walls 

Observing the chaos I have caused

I relish in the collective, pallid face

Of those whose existence I have disgraced

I, one among many, ordained for service

Travel with my comrades where we still laugh and wish

Taking from maidens their ribbons and strings

I vow to return them to my king

Yet a victim of mine remains prominent

For she was noble, and therefore prudent

Her silence was born from good manners and pride

And the unwillingness to easily subside

Alas, her strength could not match mine

And from her dress did I twine

A ribbon around my loving hand

An act of sentiment the maiden banned

I tie the ribbon in a foolish way

Pleading inside, but unwilling to say

How love seems necessary, even pertinent

To the unrequited message that I have desperately sent

The delicious fragility of this travesty

Only increases my incredibility

For I have taken from her a token of love

Though such pretensions must not be thought of

I meet, through this ribbon, my pending fate

Though I have had the chance to satiate

My lasting hunger, my need of her

And so my tragic end must occur

I have loved, loved I did

Though my heart appears placid

The facade is shattered, a knight I am not

As all expectations of humility are forgot.

So that's a rough poem, but at least I did it! Thanks for reading, and remember to keep writing!!!