Evening Mind Meanderings.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.