"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.