You seem to run in and out of my mind like the ebb and flow of the tide.
At least the water is more tangible.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Independence.
I woke up in your bed
alone.
I don't remember falling asleep
and I don't remember you leaving
and I don't remember which came after the other.
I just laid there
eyes open
smelling you
and it made me sick.
The absence of heat next to me shows
I've been alone for a while.
I looked to the clock-
you won't be back.
At least not anytime soon.
I felt unsettled
and I felt panicked.
I needed to get out of here.
I wanted to get out of those cold sheets
and out of that cold room.
The cold air made me feel nauseated.
I turned the the icy door handle
and let the door slam behind me
with a deafening thud.
I walked away,
smiling.
I didn't need you to keep me warm.
I didn't need you.
I don't need you.
alone.
I don't remember falling asleep
and I don't remember you leaving
and I don't remember which came after the other.
I just laid there
eyes open
smelling you
and it made me sick.
The absence of heat next to me shows
I've been alone for a while.
I looked to the clock-
you won't be back.
At least not anytime soon.
I felt unsettled
and I felt panicked.
I needed to get out of here.
I wanted to get out of those cold sheets
and out of that cold room.
The cold air made me feel nauseated.
I turned the the icy door handle
and let the door slam behind me
with a deafening thud.
I walked away,
smiling.
I didn't need you to keep me warm.
I didn't need you.
I don't need you.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tide.
I brace myself against the raging waters,
as the ebb and flow push and pull at my feet
struggle after struggle, my body grows weary from fighting
it is time for me to give in
I offer my body as a sacrifice to the tugging tide,
and let myself fall in lethargy
as waves drift me into the other worlds of the unknown.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Journals.
The smell of must filled my nostrils, as I was obediently getting a can of tomato paste for me mother who was making dinner in the kitchen upstairs. The concrete floor was cold underneath my rather large bare feet, and I wanted quickly to get out and gat back to my warm blanket in my bed. I found what I was looking for and turned around to run back up the stairs, until SMACK! my shins ran into a box and I stumbled over. What in the world was so irresponsibly placed in the middle of the garage floor?! I looked at the box, and had to do a double take to make sure that I was looking at what I thought I was looking at. But there it was, in all it's glory. The lid of the box read Andrea's Journals. I was dumbfounded. I didn't even notice my now numbed feet. All my attention was focused on this cardboard treasure chest I had literally stumbled upon. I took off the lid, reached inside, and pulled out a pale blue, rather skinny book with a kitten on the cover. I opened the cover and began to read.
It was the second journal I had ever purchased. I remember my first one vividly- it was pink with red and white hearts and had a plastic heart shaped lock that could be opened easily with or without the provided key. I was four years old when I had purchased that journal, and I spent my own hard earned money on it. Sixteen precious dollars! I had never had so much money of my own, and I knew it was to be spent wisely. But alas, it is lost, and this journal I purchased at the book fair in first grade is the oldest documents of memories and recollections I hold dear to me. I remember scanning the books, shelf after shelf, glossy covers shining at me, attempting to capture my attention. My eyes stopped in the untitled blue book, with the kitten that looked so much like my very own on the cover. I cracked open the spine, and saw not words of a story, but blank pages. It was a book for me to write my own story! How excited I was, that I, too, could write and create my own book for others to read.
Years later, after being stored away in box, I fell upon this journal as well as many other journals I had written from cover to cover in. It looked much different from when I first came into ownership of this treasure- the binding was practically diminished as there were scribbles all over the insides of the covers, the wobbly handwriting of a six year old. I cracked open it's weary spine once more, and read my own story.
I read about the time I had begun to read "big" chapter books such as the American Girls series. I came across the two pages that had been furiously scribbled upon, and recalled back to sitting in my first grade desk, writing in this precious journal in anger at the substitute teacher for that day, as well as some of the other students in my class. They had hurt my feelings, so I wrote down in my journal the intense frustration and anger that a six-year-old child is able to muster and understand. I was afraid, however, that either the substitute or a fellow student would take my precious book away from me, and i would be found out. My hand ached, and the side of my palm had a sheet of silver lead after U had finished covering the evidence of my thoughts. At least my secret would be safe under the graphite blanket that would hide my true thoughts forever.
Later, I returned to my box of ink stained pages and befan pouring through my history. My own stories. My own book, written with my own hand. Fourteen bound pages with all my innermost thoughts and deepest secrets. The boys who had captured my heart- David Stanley, the sixth grade heart throb who took the breath of every girl that laid eyes on him. Or Nathan Gonda, the older, cooler, curly haired beauty at my church who had no knowledge of my existence whatsoever. And Johnathon Magee.
Oh, Johnathon Magee. How could I have forgotten about him? He was so tall and slender, with piercing blue eyes and that almost black hair that slightly brushed his eyelashes. Johnathon Magee, the way his fingers swiftly flew over the fret board of his guitar. Johnathon Magee, with his words of wisdom and comfort in my times of sorrow and despair. How entranced I was by him. How often I thought of him. How long I had feelings for him. How often I had written about him. He made an appearance in five different journals. He had my heart entirely, and how badly I wanted him to be mine. But alas, I never could claim him as my own. I never won him over, and our friendship had ended after that act of betrayal from my so-called "best friend" that stole him away from me.
I read over so many experiences that I had completely forgotten. I would write daily, tell of my events for the day, write out my thoughts, share my secrets, write poems and songs and stories. As I got older and my handwriting became neater, my entries became smaller and less frequent. I would write less in my daily entries, then I would write only every few days. I started to come across unfinished entries, blank pages separating them for when I would go back and finish. I never did. My stories were incomplete, and then I turned the page and then-
Blank. A blank page. A little more than halfway through the bound pages with scribbled handwriting and pictures and sketches, the entries had ceased. My persistent writing, as well as my passion for it, decreased until eventually I had stopped writing altogether. It was when I had stopped writing that I had lost myself, and for years I was struggling with myself, and the emotional unbalances that had befallen me. I was lost and confused, frantically attempting to hold onto any loose ends I possible could of myself to remain one entity. I had lost so many, I began to feel as though I was no longer whole. I had forgotten just how passionate about writing I had been, and how good writing was for me. Therapeutic, in a way, when things didn't make any understanding in my mind, all I had to do was write on a piece of paper to make sense of the situation.
After seeing the blank journal, I knew it was up to me to finish writing in those weary pages. I cracked open the spine, smoothed my hand over the page, and began to write. Words flowed out seamlessly from my pen, my hand never ceased to keep moving from left to right and back again. Pages upon pages, the ink stained parchment, covering the side of my hand with smudged black ink. How proud I was! To know that I had begun to write again! With each entry, a new string came along and attached itself to me- a piece of myself I had lost before was restored. It was a strange but good sensation, the experience of writing again for the first time. And with each new piece I write, another piece of myself comes back to tie together those loose ends. I am not completely whole, but with each new piece that returns to me, each piece that has been restored, I learn another important factor about myself. I will never be whole, because as I continue writing, I will always be discovering who I really am.
It was the second journal I had ever purchased. I remember my first one vividly- it was pink with red and white hearts and had a plastic heart shaped lock that could be opened easily with or without the provided key. I was four years old when I had purchased that journal, and I spent my own hard earned money on it. Sixteen precious dollars! I had never had so much money of my own, and I knew it was to be spent wisely. But alas, it is lost, and this journal I purchased at the book fair in first grade is the oldest documents of memories and recollections I hold dear to me. I remember scanning the books, shelf after shelf, glossy covers shining at me, attempting to capture my attention. My eyes stopped in the untitled blue book, with the kitten that looked so much like my very own on the cover. I cracked open the spine, and saw not words of a story, but blank pages. It was a book for me to write my own story! How excited I was, that I, too, could write and create my own book for others to read.
Years later, after being stored away in box, I fell upon this journal as well as many other journals I had written from cover to cover in. It looked much different from when I first came into ownership of this treasure- the binding was practically diminished as there were scribbles all over the insides of the covers, the wobbly handwriting of a six year old. I cracked open it's weary spine once more, and read my own story.
I read about the time I had begun to read "big" chapter books such as the American Girls series. I came across the two pages that had been furiously scribbled upon, and recalled back to sitting in my first grade desk, writing in this precious journal in anger at the substitute teacher for that day, as well as some of the other students in my class. They had hurt my feelings, so I wrote down in my journal the intense frustration and anger that a six-year-old child is able to muster and understand. I was afraid, however, that either the substitute or a fellow student would take my precious book away from me, and i would be found out. My hand ached, and the side of my palm had a sheet of silver lead after U had finished covering the evidence of my thoughts. At least my secret would be safe under the graphite blanket that would hide my true thoughts forever.
Later, I returned to my box of ink stained pages and befan pouring through my history. My own stories. My own book, written with my own hand. Fourteen bound pages with all my innermost thoughts and deepest secrets. The boys who had captured my heart- David Stanley, the sixth grade heart throb who took the breath of every girl that laid eyes on him. Or Nathan Gonda, the older, cooler, curly haired beauty at my church who had no knowledge of my existence whatsoever. And Johnathon Magee.
Oh, Johnathon Magee. How could I have forgotten about him? He was so tall and slender, with piercing blue eyes and that almost black hair that slightly brushed his eyelashes. Johnathon Magee, the way his fingers swiftly flew over the fret board of his guitar. Johnathon Magee, with his words of wisdom and comfort in my times of sorrow and despair. How entranced I was by him. How often I thought of him. How long I had feelings for him. How often I had written about him. He made an appearance in five different journals. He had my heart entirely, and how badly I wanted him to be mine. But alas, I never could claim him as my own. I never won him over, and our friendship had ended after that act of betrayal from my so-called "best friend" that stole him away from me.
I read over so many experiences that I had completely forgotten. I would write daily, tell of my events for the day, write out my thoughts, share my secrets, write poems and songs and stories. As I got older and my handwriting became neater, my entries became smaller and less frequent. I would write less in my daily entries, then I would write only every few days. I started to come across unfinished entries, blank pages separating them for when I would go back and finish. I never did. My stories were incomplete, and then I turned the page and then-
Blank. A blank page. A little more than halfway through the bound pages with scribbled handwriting and pictures and sketches, the entries had ceased. My persistent writing, as well as my passion for it, decreased until eventually I had stopped writing altogether. It was when I had stopped writing that I had lost myself, and for years I was struggling with myself, and the emotional unbalances that had befallen me. I was lost and confused, frantically attempting to hold onto any loose ends I possible could of myself to remain one entity. I had lost so many, I began to feel as though I was no longer whole. I had forgotten just how passionate about writing I had been, and how good writing was for me. Therapeutic, in a way, when things didn't make any understanding in my mind, all I had to do was write on a piece of paper to make sense of the situation.
After seeing the blank journal, I knew it was up to me to finish writing in those weary pages. I cracked open the spine, smoothed my hand over the page, and began to write. Words flowed out seamlessly from my pen, my hand never ceased to keep moving from left to right and back again. Pages upon pages, the ink stained parchment, covering the side of my hand with smudged black ink. How proud I was! To know that I had begun to write again! With each entry, a new string came along and attached itself to me- a piece of myself I had lost before was restored. It was a strange but good sensation, the experience of writing again for the first time. And with each new piece I write, another piece of myself comes back to tie together those loose ends. I am not completely whole, but with each new piece that returns to me, each piece that has been restored, I learn another important factor about myself. I will never be whole, because as I continue writing, I will always be discovering who I really am.
Friday, January 8, 2010
With the New Year comes taking out the trash.
You know what, this is ridiculous. This ongoing silence between us is pointless, and I'm so sick of it. You're so used to having your way all the time, but that's all you've ever known, isn't it? You were born into wealth, your mother and father bending at your will, every boy falling into your trance, giving you whatever you want. Even when it's a bigger diamond. All the mistakes you made before have been able to be fixed by your father's plastic or a new boy for a project. But not this time. I honestly don't know how Eric found out, but why don't you ask him instead of me, because he does know. It's not my fault you cheated on your fiance with a married man and then broke off your engagement. You're going to feel so foolish once you learn the truth. Since you've sought my advice so often before, here's a thought from me to you, on the house: Know all your facts before you make such serious accusations and make a complete and total ass out of yourself. How selfish and arrogant of you, to call me and scream those words at me, without even giving me the chance to defend or explain myself. Especially when you are completely out of line and wrongly accusing me of doing something I obviously did not do. Maybe you should have just chilled the fuck down before you did, and really thought about it instead of jumping to conclusions. You are so self absorbed, and you have absolutely no regard for anyones feelings besides your own. Did you really think this "fairy tale" of yours you've been living in recently was going to last forever? You had to have known this was bound to happen sooner or later.
Obviously, this friendship never meant that much to you, since when I tried to offer my advice and stop you from making decisions you knew were not for your well being, you brushed me aside, and when I reached out and attempted to "fix" this situation so to speak, I was completely disregarded. But I guess that's how it's always been, hasn't it You get angry and upset at me and make a huge scene, I consistently attempt to make things right, until you finally forgive me and we go on our merry way. You know what? I'm so done with your bullshit. I'm the only one who ever made an effort in this friendship, and I'm the only one who ever fully supported you when you had to make those extremely challenging decisions. I guess that means nothing to you. Obviously, this friendship was just using me as another ploy to get what you want, and I'm sick of being your pawn. I never said a word about us being in an argument of sorts, let alone that you cheated on Eric with David. But if you have no trust in me anymore, then it's clear you never had any trust in me to begin with.
Pull your head out of your ass, because IT IS NOT ALL ABOUT YOU. Don't you dare blame me for your actions and the consequences that come with. I tried to warn you before it was too late, but I can't keep babying you anymore. It's time for you to grow up and take responsibility for your own decisions.
Here's a little piece of literature that you may be familiar with, seeing as you wrote it, although I made my revisions to better suit the situation at hand:
How dare you do what you did, screaming at me over the phone and acting so childish and irrationally when I did nothing to deserve it. I really hope that it was worth it. And you're right, we probably will never be friends again, but know that this friendship didn't end on my doing.
Obviously, this friendship never meant that much to you, since when I tried to offer my advice and stop you from making decisions you knew were not for your well being, you brushed me aside, and when I reached out and attempted to "fix" this situation so to speak, I was completely disregarded. But I guess that's how it's always been, hasn't it You get angry and upset at me and make a huge scene, I consistently attempt to make things right, until you finally forgive me and we go on our merry way. You know what? I'm so done with your bullshit. I'm the only one who ever made an effort in this friendship, and I'm the only one who ever fully supported you when you had to make those extremely challenging decisions. I guess that means nothing to you. Obviously, this friendship was just using me as another ploy to get what you want, and I'm sick of being your pawn. I never said a word about us being in an argument of sorts, let alone that you cheated on Eric with David. But if you have no trust in me anymore, then it's clear you never had any trust in me to begin with.
Pull your head out of your ass, because IT IS NOT ALL ABOUT YOU. Don't you dare blame me for your actions and the consequences that come with. I tried to warn you before it was too late, but I can't keep babying you anymore. It's time for you to grow up and take responsibility for your own decisions.
Here's a little piece of literature that you may be familiar with, seeing as you wrote it, although I made my revisions to better suit the situation at hand:
How dare you do what you did, screaming at me over the phone and acting so childish and irrationally when I did nothing to deserve it. I really hope that it was worth it. And you're right, we probably will never be friends again, but know that this friendship didn't end on my doing.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
So this is the New Year, and I have no resolutions.
I’ve never really believed in New Years resolutions. Why wait until the very beginning of a new year to make goals and plans to better yourself? You can start “resolutions” at anytime of the year. I also never understood the idea that if you slip up and break the resolution, then all is lost, and you are no longer able to try. A resolution isn’t something that is definite, it’s a goal. If you accidentally smoke that cigarette, or if you (God forbid!) eat something with sugar, not all hope is lost. It was a mistake, and there will be many more, but that doesn’t mean you should completely give up all together.
After thinking about things for the past couple of weeks or so, though, I’ve decided that, no, I have no resolutions, but I do have some goals that I would like to work toward. “Goal” has a more positive connotation than “resolution.” And if I make a mistake, the least I can do is put it behind me and keep working until I reach these goals.
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