Tis the Season.

I looked down at her left hand, as a glimmer of light caught my eye. I gingerly took her hand and admired the ring on her finger. "Are YOU engaged?" She laughed, and then told me the story of how her and her fiance met. I hadn't seen or spoken to Shannon St. Claire for years, and yet we spoke as if we had always been the best of friends and met on a daily basis. It was nice to catch up on everything. I could see the sparkle in her eye and hear the excitement in her voice. "The wedding's in June, at the Brown Hotel!" I congratulated her and embraced her with a large hug. The conversation led into how everyone is getting married this time of year ("Tis the season!" she chipped in)- I've been to three wedding receptions with in the past two weeks, my sister is engaged, another sister is well on her way, a friend of mine is engaged, and everyone else and my aunt seem to be flaunting a ring on her finger and a man by her side. Just another reminder of how lonely I am, or at least how lonely I've become.

I returned home from work, exhausted. Holiday shoppers don't seem to understand the toll they take on retail employees. I felt dirty, I had so much that needed to be done, yet I was unable to muster any energy to complete these tedious tasks that lay ahead of me. I decided that I may as well spend a bit of time on the computer, just to catch up on what I had missed. My facebook home page hadn't even been loaded for ten seconds when my eyes fell upon this:

Travis Schneider My best friend is getting married in two days.. WOW! How the years keep flying. Congrats Johnathon and Erin, I hope the best for you. I love you guys! 15 seconds ago

I stared in disbelief at the screen, speechless, breathless, my mind clouded with all thoughts of sorts. After what seemed like hours of staring, I closed the computer, got up, and walked to the bathroom. I need to get myself clean. I stepped into the shower, turned on the water, and fell to the porcelain floor of the tub, curled up, tears streaming down my face, trying to catch my breath, while the scalding water beat on my back. I wasn't trying to get myself clean. I was attempting to wash him away.

We ended not even four months ago, and now he's getting married in two days, and didn't even have the decency to tell me. I guess it really is the season of marriage.

And the stabbing pain in my chest has returned, as if it had never left to begin with.

Changes.

Tonight was the first time I had seen you in who knows how long. It wouldn't have happened, but I was saying goodbye to a friend, and I didn't see you until it was too late. I tried to walk away, pretending I hadn't even noticed, and walked faster when I pretended that I didn't hear you call my name. I had to stop and turn around when I heard my name shouted at the top of your lungs, because we both know there was no way I would not have been able to hear that obnoxious squeal.

I'm sure you noticed my forced smile. I didn't really make any effort in attempting to have it appear genuine, anyways. It was no pleasure of mine, was it? I had absolutely nothing to say to you, even if I was holding back all vocabulary of sorts. We exchanged the occasional, "How are you?"s and the stereotypical answers. "Work. School." Wait for it, wait for it... "Still with my boyfriend." THERE it is. I could tell that was the only thing you wanted to say. I could hear the stammer of words as you searched for something, anything, so that He was not the focus of your life. Poor job of doing so, I must say. I could see you just itching to bring it up. I get it. You're dating him, you have been dating him, and you will be dating him. You don't have to tell me twice.

You've completely changed, and I don't mean that in a good way. Your eyes are dark, and empty, just like the words that came out of your mouth. Your hair is naturally blonde, and this dark coating you've been casing it in just makes you look washed out and sick. Your lack of inner beauty is shining through. Above all else, you pretend you have the perfect life, but through all your feigned smiles and forced bubbly voice, I can see just how unhappy you are.

You used to not care what anyone thought of you. Or at least you knew how to pretend you didn't care, but I guess we all crave the approval of others. I remember when you had dyed your hair a light brown/dark blonde, and you said you hated it, because your light, yellow blonde hair was what made you YOU. You loved to laugh and have fun and spend time with the ones you loved. You used to be able to carry conversations that lasted for hours on end, embellished with our giggles and our tears. You were determined, and had so much potential, and now you're letting everything else hold you back.

Had this chance run-in meeting happened about a month ago, I would have taken this opportunity to say everything that I had wanted to for years. I would have wanted to speak every cruel word I could to completely tear you apart and make you feel absolutely and utterly worthless. I wanted to make you feel so small and alone, and I wanted my words to penetrate deep and become embedded in your brain so you could remember them forever. But seeing you tonight, it wasn't anger or hatred that I felt, but pity. I sincerely felt sorry for you, because I could see how unhappy you were. Your eyes emulated your misery, and you're doing everything you could to hide it. You're looking for happiness in the places everyone tells you you should find it- Through your one and only long term boyfriend. Through your appearance, with your artificially dark hair and extra blanket under your skin and unflattering clothes. Through your few friends you only have because they are who you live with and are convenient for you, as you have the talent of burning bridges with those you were once close with. Because those are the only things that can make you happy, right? At least that's what everyone tells you. I immediately was filled with guilt for all of the cruel things I had said before. Of all the cruel things I wanted to say. Whether or not you are aware of this, I can see it clearly. I only know because I went through it myself this past year, and it was hell. Seeing you, and seeing your eyes, was like looking into a mirror with my reflection from a year ago, and I just wanted to completely break down again.

I'm not saying that I want to be friends with you again. By any means, your lack of perspicacity is something I honestly don't think I could handle any longer than our brief two minute conversation. But no one deserves to be miserable and despondent.

Fame.

I'll probably edit this later. But I'll go ahead and post it now.

I find it interesting how one becomes famous anymore. More and more, Fame has become another label, and the only way to get that label is to become scandalous, provocative, and become something that sometimes you entirely aren't. But who wants to worship someone famous who is genuine?

No one has ever heard of Stefani Germanotta. She has natural dark brunette hair, with matching mahogany eyes. Her music is pretty, as she is a talented pianist as well as song writer. Her music conveys the familiar messages of love that we hear all too much about anymore. Her voice is deep and rich, filled with the color. She wears her fashionable outfits, nothing too glamorous or extreme, her makeup is simple and natural. She is plain, sweet, simple, but nothing special. She is too much like everyone else. Nothing Special.

Everyone, however, has heard of and heard Lady GaGa. She is everything Stefani is not. From image- with her platinum blonde hair and extreme hair styles, over the top designer couture outfits, consummate make-up, to music- hard beats and dance techno and lyrics of sex and disco-sticks, to behavior- openly admits and shows attraction towards men and women, sexual acts in public- you get the picture. Don't get me wrong, I believe Lady GaGa is absolutely fabulous and one of the most talented musicians out there, and she deserves every bit of fame she gets.

Why this comparison? Because Stefani Germanotta and Lady GaGa are one in the same.

My point lies in this- young girls are already faced with so much from the media, with the need to be thin and the need to be loved (and the only way to love and be loved is to have sex with someone who won't last forever, right?), and now they are shown the only way to make it in today's society anymore is to become like this provocative icon. They have to be outlandish and crazy. They have to become a focus of sex. They have to become all of these things to be recognized and acknowledged.

I guess I will never be accepted by society.

Creativity.

Nothing profound or fancy. Just thoughts.

I honestly don't know what it is, but lately I've had this huge burst of creative energy, and I don't even know where to begin to use it. All I want to do is paint and draw and write and play the piano and play the guitar and compose and sew and CREATE. It's been so long since I've done any of the aforementioned activities, and I don't know what I should do first. This energy is building up, and it's only a matter of time before it gets out of control.

My problem? I can't seem to bring myself to gain the courage to start any of these activities again. I've mentioned before, I'm so intimidated. I have these desires and urges to go out and create and share these things with the world, and then I see others, get scared, and become discouraged. It makes me not want to even make any kind of attempt. I know it's really irrational to let talented individuals get the better of me and hold me back, but it's something I've struggled with for so long, and something that's very difficult for me to overcome.

I wish I could write as well as her. I wish I could paint and use a camera the way she can. Why can't I play the guitar the way he does with such ease? I want to play the piano the way they can. I know it's all about "Practice! Practice! Practice!" and determination and everything else, and I know that I'm the one who is in charge with expanding my talents. However, my irrational fear and frightened mindset seems to have this ever present hold on me, and I can't seem to shake it's firm grasp.

And here it is that I am stuck, conflicted, and angry. Not with anyone that has caused intimidation upon my self conscious, rather with myself. This pent up creative energy and this intimidation and discouragement seem to be battling inside of me, for lack of a better term, and I can't seem to make the outcome of this internal conflict.

Pavement Kisses.

As I was writing about this, I came across this my friend had written, and she put it into words better than I could. Written by Emily Craig, although I feel the same.

Is it better to possibly sacrifice friendship for the truth?

I have a friend that I would never break confidence for but she is lying to another friend, who she says she wants to marry. I can’t understand why she does it. I want to shake her and hold her and comfort her and teach her that lies cannot be the foundation of a relationship. But she is waist deep in the sludge and I am helpless watching holding my hands out to her but without a voice that she will listen to.

It’s not fair to her. She needs to learn the lessons and pick herself up and put herself back together. And he needs to know the truth. But she is so fragile like a broken bird that I can’t ever betray her confidence. But he deserves so much more, and it’s tearing him to pieces.

And so the cycle of pain continues.

And I watch helplessly from the sidelines. Waiting for the time to come when I can step in and comfort?

Honor, duty, friendship, secrets, truth, trust —- what good are these when pain still comes no matter what path I choose?

One Last Time.

One last time am I going to look back with resent and regret. One last time am I ever going to burden my mind with the thoughts that harden my heart and make my bitter thoughts and cruel remarks. One last time I am ever going to think of you.

Then I will let you go, finally free of this tainted air, and carry on with a clear mind.

"I'm only eighteen and I would already do anything to be with you night and day. I could see us together in ten years...twenty...thirty...forty...for the rest of this life...eternity. I love you Andrea Kaye. More than anything."

If only you had acted on those words. Or any of the words that came out of your mouth back then. You'd complain how people always thought you were just a pothead, with no potential, "but [you'd] show them!" You changed. Towards the end, you became so angry and hateful, and everything I (and everyone else) did was just in spite of you. The world was against you. Everything was my fault because I had religious beliefs and faith. And now? Now you've lived up to your expectation. Drugs and alcohol have completely consumed your life, you have no regards for education, and you're wasting your life away. You called me to tell me that you were "once again, on [your] way to California!" You left without saying goodbye, and you only called to see if I had any religious connections out there so you could get some money. What happened? You were so wonderful back then. I wish I could have prevented whatever it was that made it all go wrong. It literally pains me to see what you've become. Obviously your vision was hazy and skewed, because we didn't even last after a year.

"Friendship isn't a label, it's a promise. May the hinges of our friendship never grow rusty. I am so thankful each and everyday to have you in my life, Andrea."

It takes work to keep the hinges from rusting. You have to constantly open and close them while keeping them well lubricated with oil so they don't become stuck and corrode. I tried to keep the door open, for both of us. You shut and locked the door and left me on the outside where I couldn't reach the hinges. I did what I could-- you're the one that let the hinges disintegrate. It seems friendship is a promise you just couldn't keep.

"Yeah, I really mean it about your friend because I don't know what it's like to lose a friend to death but I know what its like to lose a friend but just remember that even though their body is gone they still live inside you and just remember them for who they were he or she is probably in a better place and they dont suffer anymore."

You have no idea the effect you had on me, do you? The fact that even in my time of despair, you still knew exactly what to say to make me feel even the smallest glimmer of hope. I was so madly head over heels for you, and I was always scared of what you thought of me. I hated that I was that stereo-typical high school girl with a fat crush-- it wasn't like my character, and I didn't know how to handle it. I was too scared and too shy to ever just "go for it." I couldn't be myself with you, because I was too concerned with what your opinion of me may had been had I'd been found out. I know it doesn't really matter now, but I still miss our friendship. I lost a friend in you, too. I hope you're in a better place, but I can't help but hope that it ends abominably, and I feel horrid for wanting that. She may deserve it, but you don't.

"I hope you can forgive me and all of my wrongs. Andrea I love you, I love with you with all my heart, I will die for you and do anything for you [...], and I hope that nothing will ever come between us again and hopefully we/I can learn from our mistakes."

Funny. After that whole incident, you went straight back to doing what it was that caused that whole fight in the first place. I forgave, time and time again, and was slapped on the other cheek in return. When I finally gave up on our friendship, your bitter words became the poison in everyone's ears. I've looked back time and time again, and to be completely honest, I still cannot comprehend why in the world you said those things, as I had never done anything to deserve them. Even when I tried to fix it years later, you agreed that you, too, wanted to get together and discuss the situation in person. I guess you "conveniently" forgot, and left for Idaho the next day. I learned from my mistake to never forgive you again. It seems you still have yet to learn from yours.

"I don't know what to say. Sometimes you leave me breathless, Andrea. I wish I could be more like you."

I hope you get shot and paralyzed from the neck down so you live miserably for the rest of your sad, pathetic, meaningless life. Words cannot even begin to describe the slightest increment of pain, torment, suffering, and physical heartache that you caused me. You left me breathless too-- it's hard to breathe when there's a stabbing pain in your chest enabling your lungs to function properly and the tears won't stop their attempts to drown you.

The Boy.

He was so skinny. It looked as though his pale, yellow-greying skin was about a half a yard too short to cover his body, and so they stretched the material over his skeletal figure to make it fit. Any wrong movement, and a rib will pierce the fabric, and they'll just have to go get more skin. It's happened before-- you can see the seams that appear as veins on his arms from repairing the damage.

He didn't smile often, although who could blame him. His rotting teeth were half the size they should have been, brown and grey and green, stained circles on each enamel-- probably from his former brackets. That would have to be the only indicator that he did once have braces, as his teeth now overlapped each other, placed here and there. No longer a straight and structured paint stroke by a professional artiste, but rather a jagged sketch from a two year old child.

Even his body stood crookedly. When he walked he resembled a beaten and abused canine-- skewed, awkwardly hunched over, hobbling from one destination to the next. When he staggered past, a breeze would send over the cigarette stench that lingered in his greasy hair and worn clothes. His whole demeanor screamed "troubled soul."

All over his bony body were ink stains, each with little or no significance whatsoever. A pair of numbers. "The year I was born." A blue rose. "Just a rose." A lego. "It makes me super indie and cool." A star. "Who doesn't have this tattoo?" A cliche heartbroken statement. "Love IS Hell." An ostrich head with Native American feathers. "I thought the Indian feathers looked rad." A true hipster indie kid, if I ever met one.

You could definitely tell he was one of those kids in middle and high school-- you know. The socially awkward one with his just as socially awkward friends that was always quiet and shy and unspoken, teased on constantly for his rail-like body and bug eyes, yet had some profound talent that made him some kind of prodigy. (At my high school, his name was Matthew Diasio, and he recieved a perfect score of 36 on his ACT.) But now he's out of high school-- a second chance to make something of himself in the world. This time, he wouldn't fail.

But those eyes.

There was something about them that would intrigue your attention and capture your interest. He had very large, sunken in brown, eyes. The kind of brown that makes you think of milk chocolate or hazelnut coffee with a bit of cream. Sometimes, they looked curious, hungry for more knowledge and understanding. Sometimes, they looked excited, from the prospect of something new and adventurous. Most of the time, however, they looked sad. There was something deep inside that had been haunting him, something he had been wishing he could forget, something he could rid himself of, causing him an unspoken misery. Oh, he tried to hide it, yes, to force himself to feign a smile here and there, to appear happy and normal. But those damned bug-like eyes-- those eyes will always betray him.

It seems that we are all guilty of being too quick to judge. All growing up, I had believed that you must learn to get to know a person before you form an opinion. By middle school, I saw that other's were not so willing to give me that chance, and so I forgot that oh so valuable trait I once possessed. I became cruel and unfeeling, making my remarks and comments about others that I had never truly had actually met and observed. It's the the whole Narcissism Theory-- we're attracted to what looks like us, and vice versa. Everything and everyone else, otherwise, is pushed away and cast aside while we viciously laugh at their flaws that make them so different and so less than us "superiors." It became a habit, and anyone who did not immediately captivate my interest (or interest of my friends) was categorized in the differential and peculiar society. I have forgotten, and now I must re-learn. Meeting him, I immediately stereotyped and judged and labeled him. Being the label of an indie-kid, promptly the terms ass-hole, self absorbed, and pseudo-artiste came to mind. I am ashamed of such quick judgements, but I see now just how habitual this process has become for ALL of us. It was seeing his eyes that made me realize that yes, there is always more than meets the eye, and true beauty is not always only skin deep. And so, without judgement and without shame, I look forward to getting to know Isaac Mingo a little more.

Home.

"What do you do in your time that you're not working? Why haven't you done this, and this, and this?"

I look up lazily. I had been working on this and this and this, as well as working on that and that and that. I'm sorry our priorities are different. No amount of yelling and telling me "Your bedroom looks like shit," is going to motivate me. I'm sorry I'm forced to share my extremely diminutive living space with my sister who is in and out all the time, with whose lifestyle I have to cater my schedule and sleeping arrangements and everything else to. "Oh, Andrea Stringer is coming to spend the night. I hope you don't mind." Not at all. Just let me go out and spend yet another night on the piss-stenched couch that is too small for my elongated body. It's just as much her mess as it is mine, if not more.

I know I haven't been very motivated to do anything lately. I figured it was the downpour of rainy weather and lack of solar rays that caused me to be so lethargic and soporific. However, today is a perfect, gorgeous autumn day, with wisps of white feathers in the robin-egg skies, blends of greens and reds and yellows and oranges in the ever-changing trees. A slight chill is in the breeze. Beautiful. All I want to do is get out and take a drive, to have some time alone to myself and my thoughts. Perhaps it's not the weather that causes my lack of motivation. Maybe it's living here at home.

Mouth.

My God. I just wanted to try to make it better, yet it seems that all I do is make everything worse. Sometimes I wish I would just keep my mouth shut. All it does is make me make an ass out of myself, and I become a total bitch. My aunt suggested jokingly I use duct tape. I'm highly considering it, looking back at all the stupid shit my mouth, and my inability to keep it sealed, has caused.

Unfortunately, back when I was able to create the noise of silence, that, too, caused so many problems and issues. My remaining silent always made things worse-- there was no closure, nothing was ever resolved. All I was left with were brooding thoughts and a resentful heart. I thought that finally speaking up would change this. How sadly I was mistaken.

It seems I can't find a happy medium.

A Thought.

I miss our late night walks and talks of nothing and everything.

I miss our conversations that drifted off to sleep.

I miss waking up with your arm innocently belted around my waist on that tiny aged couch.

I miss the gentle way your fingers caressed my hair and hands.

I miss the way your velveteen voice whispered, "Andie," into my ruptured ears.

I miss coming home from work to discover a letter from you on my front door.

I'm so, so sorry for ruining it all.

I despise myself for it.

I wish you would write me back.

Ring.

I looked down at my right hand. I had forgotten to put back on my ring for the first time in months, and my ring finger felt naked. I hated that strange sensation of a nonexistent ring. Nothing I could do about it now. I'll just have to wait to get home before I can clothe the knobby twig that grew out of my palm. Something caught my eye. A mosquito bite? I looked closer. It was then I noticed the skin where my ring had been was dry, red, and cracked. The wrinkles in just that part of skin looked almost fifty years older than the rest of my almost twenty-year-old hand. That had never been there before.

"Don't worry," my sister assured me, when I showed her. "It happens to me all the time. It'll just crust over and peel off in a few days, and your finger will be good as new." Apparently I've worn my ring for too long.

I waited, and sure enough, my finger is healing. The dead, dry skin that made my finger look diseased is peeling. The cracks and wrinkles are no longer dirtying my finger. Now it is as good as new.

I've worn this visage, this mask, too long. Each sin, each wrong-doing, each foul act I have committed has been pushed under and hidden by this mask. Then it's left there to be forgotten, to rot and decay. For the first time in months, I've forgotten to put my mask back on. The skin underneath has become dry, cracked, and wrinkled irritated skin. It's a strange sensation- I feel naked, and vulnerable. All who I love and adore are seeing me for what I am. I am ugly. I am diseased. They turn away in disgust. Give it some time, the dead skin will peel off, and I will be healed, I tell them. They look, hesitant to come back. The skin under my mask is healing, and I will be good as new. Then we can carry on like nothing happened.

However, there is still a white mark where my ring once laid, despite the healed skin. A reminder of something that once was.

Perhaps I should hide the imperfection with my ring.

Scars.

She traced her fingers around the marred patch of skin on his chest. "Tell me again, how you got your scar," she requested. Every time it was a different story, filled with actions of bravery and matters of life and death. She knew how he really got the scar- he had a severe heart condition when he was an infant. But she enjoyed the bizarre and vivid interpretations of what it could have been. Soon, he'd become her first scar.

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone, feeling the concave hole under his eye. "What did you do to get that scar?" she questioned. He looked at her sternly, a glimmer of playfulness in his eye. He made up an elaborate story of getting into a fight for defending his honor, all sorts of weaponry and fight skills used. How brave! The cut under his eye was the only thing we walked away with! It wasn't long before he confessed the truth of removing a cancerous mole. She preferred the other story, but she wouldn't let him know. He became her second scar.

They had been walking around aimlessly, talking of this and that, whether or not the subjects of their discussions was important. He was wearing shorts that day, and as he sat down, she saw the edge of the shiny fabricated skin right above his knee. "May I inquire as to what happened?" He chuckled, and spoke of an accident involving scalding olive oil burning his then eight year old legs. No wild or elaborate stories, just the simple truth. Unbeknownst to her, he became her final scar.

Almost three years later, she finds herself looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her naked body is smooth as marble, not a single mark in sight on the surface. Her eyes stared. They had changed, but how? Why is it that her eyes are so dark anymore, instead of the bright, happy, vibrant eyes they once were? There was no sign of this transition on the surface. Perhaps if she delved deeper. She then opened her chest to peer inside her own self, scanning, searching for the cause of this change. Why? Why was there this unspoken and inexplainable sadness in her eyes that she was so incapable of hiding from the rest of the world, no matter how strong her vain attempts became? Nothing seemed to be strange or out of place. She searched and searched, scrutinizing every little detail. She was about to give in and give up until- wait- something's not right. And there it was- what she had been looking for. Right there. Slightly to the left of the center, under her ribcage, three deep, shiny scars glistened in the light on the casing of her heart. Surrounding the scars were some scratches and some bruises, but those didn't hold any permanent effect. Scratches heal and bruises fade. Scars are eternal. And whether she liked it or not, she would have to live with these scars for eternity. She closed her chest and sewed the fabric together. She clothed her naked body, and walked away from the mirror with an altered glint in her eye.

At least she finally understood. Now it is not something that can hold her back.

The Peacock.

"Of course I've thought these things. But I would never say them aloud, for saying them aloud would make me vain and narcissistic."

The wrinkled, elderly woman stared at the young girl through the reflection of the mirror intently, searching, observing, and then replied,

"No, my dear. You are mistaken. No matter how hard you try to hide it, your vanity is evident in your eyes."

For My Teachers.

Prose: Write a 250-350 word essay on what inspired you to become an educator.

This is my response.

Teachers have always been given far little credit, when they in reality deserve the world and more in return to what they have provided us. How are we to succeed, exceed, and accomplish anything if not for the education our teachers have bestowed upon us? I know that I would be lost out in the tempest tossed seas had I not the teachers I had to provide me with the winds, a compass, and the stars for guidance. It was the teachers that nurtured, that cared. They entrusted me with wisdom and knowledge far beyond any of my expectations. My teachers weren't there to get a small paycheck at the end of the week so they can pay their bills and provide for their families- they were there to educate, to impart their wisdom, to make us students truly understand and feel the passion that they felt. My teachers weren't just teachers. They were human beings, each with their own histories and experiences and stories. They felt emotion, they had passions, they had once loved and lost, once triumphed and failed. They were us, and we were them. I always had been eager to see what would come next, for each day was a new adventure. My teachers never left me in the dust, as a weed waiting to be trampled upon and pushed back into the earth in disgust and shame. I was a sapling of a talent in every area of education. They were trees themselves once, and they planted their seeds inside of each of us, including me. My teachers took the time to water me, to prune me, place me in fertile soil, so that I may grow into a large tree, filled with knowledge, and the large tree shall provide so many resources for others. I hope to someday grace the blessing upon another as they have blessed me, plant my seeds and grow my trees, and guide those lost souls in the raging sea.

Tear.

They laid together, still, bodies interlaced and entwined, two personages becoming one entity. Blankets and sheets weaved through their legs, covering bits and pieces of ivory and olive skin. Their heartbeats were a symphony, melody and harmony flowing naturally. He gently brushed her hair out of her face. Her heart fluttered.

"You're absolutely perfect," he whispered.

She looked into those kind, hazelnut eyes, only to close her own when his lips met hers. His arms wrapped around her, cradling her body, keeping her warm, as she laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes while listening to the rhythmic heartbeat. His eyes remained wide open. Thoughts raced and roamed, complications and worries burdening his mind.

"Why are you going back? Why can't you stay here?"

She lifted her head and looked back into his chocolate eyes. They stared back into her own intensely, as if searching for something.

"It's my home. As much as I would want to stay with you, I don't belong here."

He smiled slightly. "I know. I'm just being silly." It had been too good of a day. He didn't want to ruin it now. Just enjoy the precious and limited time that he did have with her. They softly kissed once more.

She laid her head back down, just in time to miss that single tear silently slide out of the corner of his eye into her tangled mane of curly, dark tresses.

Love, And The Fools That Fall For It.

Tonight was the first time I had the so-called pleasure of watching the movie, "He's Just Not That Into You." Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the movie very much so, and it was possibly the most honest of movies when it comes to relationships that I have seen. It did however cause me to do WAY too much pondering in my behalf of past relationships. Actually, just ONE past relationship. For those of you whom have already seen the movie, you would recall the scene where Jennifer Connelly and Bradley Cooper's characters are shopping in Home Depot, and Mr. Cooper suddenly reveals the horrid truth, "I slept with someone else." You will recall Ms. Connelly's response as she stops, frozen, a blank expression on her face, as if she is quite not sure just HOW to react towards the situation.

As soon as the words had left Bradley's mouth, they echoed in my mind over and over again, but with another's voice behind the words. I no longer payed attention to the movie at that point. I was in a flashback memory, standing in the parking lot at Cherokee Park, street lamps the only source of light, and that same, exact, literal line spoken to me. Word for word. I wasn't looking at the TV screen- I was staring into those bloodshot, swollen, tear-filled eyes, knowing that it had been said in all seriousness. As much as I had wanted it to all be some kind of sick joke, I knew the truth had been spoken. And my reaction was very much the same as Jennifer's- I stared. I was blank. I was frozen. I was speechless. I honestly had NO idea how to react. I had never anticipated that this could happen to ME, let alone HIM being the one to do it. He kept asking me to say something- ANYTHING. But I didn't know what to say. To be completely honest, these were the only three thoughts that crossed my mind:

1. How could he?

2. Why? What did I do wrong?

3. I can't believe I actually took time and made an effort in my appearance to see Him tonight, only to get this in return. What a waste.

And much like Jennifer's response, I started blaming myself. I started rationalizing. I started thinking that maybe if we talked things out, if we worked things through, the relationship could be saved. (And I do not condone his actions by any means, but you have to admit, it takes balls to admit that to someone and tell them that you were wrong and you are sorry. Especially the VERY NEXT DAY after it had happened. Which any person who also commits this act of selfishness and actually has a conscious should do. So props to him in that regard, but none furthermore.) But no matter how much blame; no matter how much talk; no matter how much work, the deed had been done, and nothing was going to change that. All trust had been lost. The relationship was essentially over.

As the movie resumed playing, Savannah and Laura, with whom I was watching the movie with, along with myself often made our own comments and remarks, igniting the spark for another discussion on the subject of relationships. (You can't really help doing so when you're in a group of girls- especially while watching that movie.) All of us were relating to one another, making our remarks and discussing our very own past relationships. Unconscious and unaware of what was being said through my very own mouth, I blurted out, "I just feel so foolish for falling for it all again. He just used me. I'm such an idiot."

All at once it hits me. Everything rushes to my head, and I finally see it all for what it really is. It's so clear, so how did I not see any of this before? And I feel so foolish. He told me he loved me. He told me he never stopped loving me. He told me he wanted to marry me. He told me he wanted to spend his life with me. He told me that he had never felt this way towards anyone else. He told me what we had was so unique, so different, and no one would ever find Love as we had found. After that night in Cherokee Park, yes, the relationship was essentially over. Except, for some ungodly reason, I couldn't let myself believe it. Time and time again, he came crawling back, and I being overcome by Love, stupidly gave him the benefit of the doubt and took him back. Over and over again, he feed me the same words he knew would make me wooed and smitten, held me in his arms just the right way, and kissed me passionately oh so perfectly, convincing me that yes, he was sorry, and yes, he did love me. And like the gullible fool I am, I believed him. I completely fell for it. Twice. Which makes it even worse. I should have known better. I should have trusted my instincts. But no- Love blinded me and caused me to act irrationally and do this to myself. Twice. I had become the abused puppy- when I had been beaten, and was broken, I ran away. He coaxed me, luring me back with those words of comfort. I knew what I was getting into when I came back. I knew it would happen again. But it was all I knew to make me feel better. Saying it aloud only solidified the truth.

Anger and resent and hatred build up inside of me. Not for him- rather for myself. I'm so angered that I could even let myself believe it all again. I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed because I fell for it. Again. I'm ashamed that I let this happen. I'm ashamed that I wasn't more guarded. I'm ashamed that I allowed Him to do this to me and to use me again. Tears are brimming my eyes, but I refuse to let them escape the walls of my eyelids. No. I will not let him have the satisfaction of this heartbreak once more. I will not waste a single, 'nother tear on him. He's not worth it. At least that's what I keep telling myself to make me feel better. The end of the movie is on the screen. I know I should feel all giddy and happy and estatic since the very predictable ending had finally surfaced in the resolution of the all too simple and familiar plot, but I'm on the verge of tears, and all I feel like is letting these tears, and these feelings, and letting Him go.

Driving me back to my car, Savannah and I discuss the situation. Somehow, we seem to always have the most intricate conversations, and we seem to always know exactly what to say to the other. We listen to each other I feel in a different sense than most. I always trust discussing things of this nature, as well as other topics, with her. I repeat out loud how I feel like a fool, how I am nothing but used merchandise. I'm broken here and there, although I can still function proficiently, but no one is going to want something that only works partially when they can get it brand new and working the way it should be. We discuss the hidden truths of Love. "Love is both ends of the spectrum," she says. "Yes, Love is great and wonderful, and no matter what happens, it lasts forever. But at the same, it lasts forever. They always tell you how amazing falling in Love is- they tend to leave out how hard it is to fall out of Love." She pulls into the parking lot next to my car. "That's what makes Love a handicap. It's what we make of it," I reply, before opening the door of her car and stepping into my own.

Love is a handicap- and it's what we make of it. Too many times, Love is the obstacle that keeps us from so many other things. Love is what sets us back. Love is the hurtle in this race we pretend is so essential that we must throw our bodies over and land gracefully on our feet to continue running if we want to win. Sometimes we stumble, sometimes our foot gets caught and we fall, scraping and skinning our knees, breaking bones and spraining ankles. All that's left of us is this bloody and bruised and dirty mess on the ground while everyone passes us by. We can either make the most of it and bring to ourselves back up, progressing onward and making ourselves better. We can look at Love and take it as a learning experience, and grow and develop from what Love has done. Or we can be miserable, and blame all our misfortunes and karma (or lack of) on Love. We can sit there at the hurtle, staring, and refuse to jump, blaming Love in not letting us do so. It's scary, and if you want to jump, it's a very big risk. You may land perfectly, but there's also the much more possible chance of falling and getting hurt. But how are we going to get further in the race if we don't use our momentum and hurtle our bodies over that piece of wood in our lane?

Past. Present. Future.

It's interesting, really... How you can completely forget and disregard one's existence, not thinking of them for years, and one day, out of the blue, they somehow slyly creep their way back into your thoughts. You can't seem to shake them off your mind, no matter how hard you try to rid them from your memory. Next thing you know, that person and their meaningless existence- or so you thought- is the only thing you can seem to focus your thoughts on. Even in your rest you can't escape them- they've been haunting your dreams. They are now who and what you dream about every night; they have become the vital and essential thoughts you now thrive on to get through everyday. You feel that slight flutter of your heart as their face flashes across your vision, as their voice rings in your ears, as their being runs through your mind. All because of some small little incident or picture or object that triggered your memory.

You can't help but wonder if- oh how cruel that word, IF- they have thought about you too. If they ever have random thoughts and dreams and musings of your existence as well. Do they ever wonder how you're doing? Do they ever feel the desire to speak to you again? Do they- DID they- ever have the feelings towards you that you so strongly felt towar

ds them? I's almost maddening, all these thoughts possessing your mind. If only you could JUST KNOW.

You begin to wander, going to those once forbidden places, in hopes of- PRAYING- that they'll be there, and your eyes can lay upon that oh so insignificant person you've always told yourself repeatedly they were. Just so you can see them one more time. It becomes an everchanging daydream that you play over and over again in your mind. All you want is one chance meeting. You want to see them one last time, desperately hoping for that one last chance to resolve everything and finally receive some form of closure so as to make sure they never plague your thoughts again. There are so many questions you want to ask. There are so many questions you want answered. So many things that you want explained and to explain. There are two sides to the story, all you wish is that you could tell them yours. Just so they KNOW. You want to talk it all out so you're no longer left wondering. All you want is that one opportunity to end it all.

You thought this wound had been healed, but there it is- reopened. Maybe it had never been completely healed in the first place. Bitterness begins to consume every other emotion, thought, and feeling. you dwell on that act of betrayal that took them away from you forever- that act of betrayal you had tried so very hard to be rid of. But it hasn't been forgotten. Anger and resent build.

In the past, after everything had happened that separated the two of you, you made yourself busy. You tried to keep your mind off of everything. You would do as much as possible at school, work as much as you legally were able to, immediately started dating when the opportune person came along, anything and everything to keep your mind off of them. Only now can you see that you were trying to heal yourself the only way you knew how- by not giving yourself time to heal. You fooled yourself, thinking that now it's all over, you don't have to worry about it now. It's too far in the past to try to worry about it now. Alas, you are mistaken. It's finally caught up with you. You're no longer emotionally obligated to anyone, you have a break from school, and work seems to not take up as much of your thoughts as you'd like. Now you are able to let these thoughts consume your mind. You're finally grieving. You're finally mourning over the loss and heartbreak. You have time to ponder and dwell on the situation. And as much as you wanted all of this to be over, it's just the beginning. You'll get over them eventually, you think to yourself. Someday, in the future, they won't matter. But this is here. This is now. You are living in the present, not the future. And right here, right now, in the present, you're nothing but an emotional wreck who can't stop thinking about someone who honestly, more than likely, give two shits and a piss about you.

You wonder, "Why in the world can I not seem to get my head around this? Why can't I just let it go?" It dawns on you- this is what has been weighing you down all this time. It suddenly becomes clear; You realize their existence had never been forgotten in the first place. Deep down, they had always been a memory- unconsiously thought about daily. They've always been there in the back of your mind. Only now are you willing to acknowledge it- and accept it. It's become a burden, the thought and memory of someone who once- and still does- meant the world and more to you.

Hopefully fate will have it, and you will become remedied of this disease for eternity. Until then, all you can do is mourn, grieve, and heal. Someone will come along that you will love, and they shall reciprocate the feeling. You want it now. But you have to be patient. It may take more time to heal than you had anticipated, but someday, you think to yourself, you will be rid of all of this, and you can hold your head high once more.

I at least find it interesting.

Songs and Memories.

originally written: october, 2008

I'm sitting here, listening to music, when "hotcha girls" by ugly casanova, one of my favorites, begins to play, and suddenly im no longer here. i look around and i find myself back to the night i was standing in your kitchen, your arms warmly cacooning me as we swayed gracefully to the slow, lullibaic melody. No conversing, so singing, no one else around, just you and me and this peaceful silence between the two of us, faces close, eyes closed, the mesmerizing song translucent in the background. you brushed your cheed against mine, and sofly whispered along, "we left our teethmarks on the barrel of a gun..." then you breathed those words which didn't match the lyrics of the song-- those words that had been said so many times before, those words that would be said so many times after, and those words that have forever been branded in my heart an in my mind with your voice in them: "i love you." three simple words, and that made all the difference. you pulled back, looked at me in the eye, leaned in and kissed me ever so gently. it didnt last long-- it wasnt an aggressive kiss that continued and didnt stop, but it wasnt just some quick kiss, either. just a simple, tender, slightly lingering kiss, filled with the most sincere passion and love than any other kiss could hold or compare to. as soon as your lips touched mine, a small spark in my chest immediately grew into this great fire, and i knew that, without a doubt, that those words and feelings were reciprocated on my behalf.

the song ends. i find myself back in this still unfamiliar bedroom, in this lonely apartment. im alone. no one with their arms around me, no one whispering in my ear, no one even in any of the other rooms. im completely alone. but im no longer the same as before i left. the fire is still there, blending with the searing pain in my chest. i cant see-- my vision has become blurred and there are small, splattered drops of water on the desk im sitting in front of-- i soon recognized those to be tears-- hot streaks on my cheeks-- trails left from the salty water.

i didnt even realize that i was crying...

im not in my apartment for long. the song changes and im taken back to your house, the feelings of anxiety and excitement completely overwhelming me. it was the first time i had seen you since i met you two years prior, and i was so happy to finally be with you for the first time- i had wanted it for so long- but i was so afraid, as well. it didnt take long for that fear to be replaced as you started playing that cd, and then came back to me, reassuring me with a kiss and a gentle hand on my cheed that there was nothing for me to be afraid of. that same cd you lent to me --"so you think of me as you drive home,"-- and i was forever bonded with that cd and you. those ending lyrics had stuck with me and will always bring me the image of your cloudy sky eyes smiling at me:
"but oh, my love, though our bodies may be parted
though our skin may not touch skin
look for me with the sunbright swallow
i will come on the breath of the wind."

it continues. im back in my room, with more tears than before, but im never there for long. when one sone ends, another one begins-- and with each new song, i'n transported to another memory: the garage band playing a well-familiar tune the night we first met, although failing miserably at capturing the feeling of infiniteness as is in the original song. that same song blasting through the speakers, the mirrors vibrating with the bass, my car shaking, as i was on my way home that fourth of july night, in which my life had changed forever. i was back in my room. more tears. a song i had never heard before that came on WFPK as i excitedly drove the long, narrow, windy, forrest covered roads to your house, and telling you how i felt my whole world had a new meaning. i was back in my room. more tears. the song that defined our relationship, which lyrics i had written on that drawing to prove it so. i was back in my room. more tears. the dueted song which helped you admit that you were scared of me to know your past. i was back in my room. more tears. the song you gave to me, and you told me that, just like in the song, i could be with someone else, someone who is supposedly better than you, but youre thankful that im with you. i was back in my room. more tears. the piano piece that we had discussed, in which its beautiful sound reminded both of us of a bittersweet farewell, with the promise of reuniting once more. i was back in my room. more tears. the song that was constantly playing in my head, when i had painfully made the hardest decision of my life, when you had told me that you never wanted to talk to me again. songs and songs and songs played-- memories and memories and memories were relived.

i was, once again, back in my room. once again, there were more tears.

i couldnt understand. i had heard all of these songs numerous times. ive never relived any of these memories while hearing these songs before... and i think to myself, maybe it was because i was hearing the songs, but i wasnt listening. and now that i had actually been listening, all of these memories came flooding back to me, pouring down on me like the hard rain that i miss so much, coming and coming until im drowing in this vast sea of rainwater and i have no way to get out except to accept that i must relive these memories once more.

im back in my room. im blinded by this point, a small pool of water on the desk in front of me. the song changes, but this time, im not taken to a memory. this song has no memory to take me to. this song is creating a memory of its own: this memory, of me sitting here, alone, listening to the bittersweet melody. i am engrossed by the lyrics, knowing that those lyrics and i are fusing together to become as one. no one could have told me how inevitable this would have been. and i realize, im never going to escape these memories. every song, movie, event that takes place in my life now and forever more, somehow, they are going to trigger my mind and lead my thoughts back to you.
"and so it is, like they said it would be
life goes easy on me
most of the time [...]
i cant take my eyes off of you.
i cant take my mind off of you."
i want nothing more in this moment that to wish that there was such thing as eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. i would be able to rid myself of all of these memories, and i could listen to all of these songs in peace. i wonder... if you were to erase your memory of me, would we be like the characters in the movie? despite the memories of eachother erased, we find eachother once more, and still love eachother?

do you still love me?

more realizations come flooding into my overwhelmed and emotional mind: i kept telling myself that i only thought i loved you, that i only wanted to be in love, but i never was. how wrong i have been, this whole time. as cliche and cheesy as it may sound, i really did love you, and i now know that i always will. even though we have both moved on, and as life takes us each on our own journeys, whether they take us closer or further than eachother, i will always think of you.
"i cant take my mind off of you."

the song changes. im still in my room. a new memory. but this song is different. and for the first time in months, i smile. not the smiles that i have been faking and putting on for the world to see. not the smiles that i have unknowingly been using to please others. i genuinely smile. i know that everything will be alright. i miss you, and i love you. nothing is going to change that. and i know that its never going to be the same between us, no matter how badly i wish it could be. but im okay with it now. i was given these memories, and theres nothing i can do about them but learn from them, reflect on them, and know that none of it was in vain. im so thankful for everything that you have given me, shared with me, and taught me. i wouldnt be where i am now had it not been for you. and i thank you. as hard as it is, and as hard as it will be in the future, i will move on. with every new song, there is a new memory. because "everythings gonna get lighter, even if it never gets better."

Snow.

originally written: january, 2009

the snow glistening in the sunlight
looks so beautiful
i want to reach out and grab a hold of it
keep it with me forever
but as soon as my hand touches it
the sparking beauty melts
and the once glistening fairness
is now nothing more than
a few drops of water
trickling down
as i desperately try to hold on
to keep it from slipping away
but all i have left
is an empty hand
cold and numb
with no more feeling

Introduction (Barricades)

The idea of blogging has never settled right with me. I always am annoyed at the thought of displaying your every life's detail for millions of bloodshot eyes you would never recognize in person to search through and criticize and judge. It absolutely disgusts me that people are so open and so willing to put ANYTHING and EVERYTHING about themselves and their lives out there so publicly for the world to see. When i do see it, I have to ask myself- Are you really that self obsessed and narcissistic? Are you really so starved for attention that you're willingly to give away all virtue and self respect? Sickening.

Maybe it's because I'm introverted. I prefer to keep everything- my thoughts, my feelings and emotions, my secrets and dreams, EVERYTHING- to myself. I don't like letting people in. I tend to prefer to have the barricade surrounding me, blocking everyone out, keeping everything in. Nothing enters, nothing leaves. I imprison myself. I feel the most comfortable that way. I don't like being exposed to others, and i don't like people being able to get in without a fight. You have to fight your way through the barricade to get to me. You have to earn your right to delve into my mind and explore my thoughts. It's nothing personal; it's just how i am. Thus you can see why exposing one's self to the rest of society so openly that they know every living detail sickens me. I am a much more personal person. I have my boundaries.

Unless you really know me, you wouldn't be able to tell all of this if seen in a casual, normal day to day setting. Some people say I'm an open book- those people are the kind to assume that they can figure me out in just a few chance meetings and a few simplistic conversations that never delve past the exterior of common and surfaced. How are you to figure out a disastrously disjointed, complicated mind such and mine if you can't even penetrate the surface? Tell me what you think I'm thinking- I promise you you'll be wrong. I'm just not a simplistic mind that can be put down on paper. I'm not black and white- I'm a whole array of various colors, mixing and blending, always changing to make new colors and new patterns. I'm unpredictable- you'll never know what picture is painted on the canvas that is my mind. Once you think you've got it figured out, the optical illusion shifts, creating something new, something different and original.

I like to think that I wasn't always this way- experience has made me so. The harsh reality of life has come and gone multiple times, and it is still yet to come more in the future. I was too trusting. All too easily did I give the benefit of the doubt. Time and time again it was all just thrown back into my face tenfold and pushed me deep into the ground. After multiple times of hurt and pain and betrayal, I became resentful. No longer would i let anyone walk all over me again. Subconsciously, the construction of the barricade began. With each experience, a new level of the barricade was built. Levels were added on over and over again, until one day, the barricade became so high that no one was able to get through, and I wasn't able to get out. I felt safe, secure, and thought no harm could reach me. Only now have i discovered it and seen what it has done. I've become cold, and inhumane. I am alone- I no longer have anyone here for me. I don't mean to barricade myself as to let no thoughts out and no one in- it's just how I am. I am a prisoner inside of a barricade that I have created for myself. And even if I am alone, it's what I've become accustomed to. I'm comfortable, and I'm safe. There's no danger here.

I know it doesn't really make any sense; complaining about people being so tactless and letting the world know and see everything about them. Yet here I am, creating a blog of my own for the whole of society to see. Let me explain, so as to not portray myself as that of a hypocrite (although I have been one on certain subjects, I will shamefully admit. But that is for another entry).

This blog is a result of a conversation my friend Savannah and i had while driving through Bardstown Road one day. You see, Savannah is one of my dearest friends. Savannah also happens to be one of the most phenomenal writers I have ever had the pleasure of knowing and the privilege of reading. She has a way with words and seems to know how to phrase everything just right. Her analogies range from her veins being the wires operating a cold, lifeless machine to a piece of shitty toilet paper flushing down the toilet into the sewer, yet fit perfectly with for whatever subject she may be speaking of and whatever point she is trying to get across to the ignorant society that strives to know everything. Everyone is able to relate to what she has written in some sense or another. Savannah and I had been discussing and evaluating ourselves after being evaluated by a palm reader. Of course we didn't really take it seriously. Curiosity had overcome us and so for sheer enjoyment decided to see what was to be said and what futures our palms so reverently held entailed. I can't really remember how the subject had even come up to the surface, to be quite frank. But I had opened up to Savannah about how I am intimidated easily. Well... let me rephrase, so as to help you better understand. I am severely intimidated easily. When i see someone who is more accomplished than I and is exceedingly more talented in an area of interest that I share with them, I immediately feel ashamed. How dare I sit there and pretend that I have any increment of talent when they are obviously so much better than I? I could never amount to the level they so highly possess. Thus I become discouraged and never want to make any effort or try again. So i'll only do these things I find so much joy and pleasure in in secret. Writing happens to be one of these things. I love to write. I always have. I find that it's extremely therapeutic and helps to organize my disjointed thoughts. It's not just with writing that I'm like this. It's everything- writing, art, photography, dance, piano, guitar, singing- everything I am passionate about and find joy in doing. I see someone better than I, I become discouraged, and then I don't ever want to try anymore. I give up. Writing is something that I had forgotten about, and suddenly realized that I had a passion for. And so I write. But I see my friend Savannah, who is far more talented than i, and I see many other friends who are much better with words than I could ever fathom. So in the past, I had decided to keep all of my writing to myself. But I can't grow or develop in this skill if I just keep writing to myself, my works hidden in the dark corners of my room, never to be seen or touched again. It is my insecurity, and I need to overcome it.

And so this is the purpose of my blog. To overcome my intimidation. To expand my horizons as a writer. To develop my sapling of a talent and nurture it until it grows into that large tree (I'd like to think of mine as a willow tree) that will provide so many resources for others. It is time for me to break down my barricade, and open my mind to the world. I need to be able to let others in; not those that will hurt and discourage, but rather love and inspire. I am now freeing myself of this prison I have been captivating myself in. I shall step out into the sun I have been hiding from for so long, and embrace it's warm effulgent rays with pride. The walls are to be torn down, and I shall be able to connect with others once more.

This blog is me. MY thoughts. My ideas. My musings. My dreams. Creating a space in a world where everything seems to get smaller at the end of each day. And you're left to wonder, what's really mine? Well, this is, but you can have some. I'm willing to share this part of me.