Half

Half-filled journals sit on my shelf. They are full of half-written entries and half-explained ideas. Poetry that was left without rhythm, or stories left on cliff hangers. Each one started out with the best of intentions, full of ideas that I couldn't wait to explore.

Half-filled sketchbooks are hidden under my dresser, in my backpack, and between my books. Each holds half-finished drawings and sketches, art on which I gave up or during which I fizzled out. They too had potential for beauty, to become something of which I could be proud.

The links to posts on this very blog are half black lettering and half gray. The black ones are what you all can see, and the gray ones I see marked as "draft". Those gray posts are all half-written. The text fills half the space that it should and the ideas I tried to explain are left with only half understanding.

Nothing is ever finished or full as it should be. It is left waiting for the second half to finish it that will never come.

I feel that I too have become only half of a person.

Who

I'm drifting
Floating
Just a wisp of wind

Never sure
Always wondering
Forever confused

Lightly sleeping
Almost awake
Somewhere in between

Who am I, really?

Punishment

I suppose I was just punishing myself. I didn't truly realize it at the time, but everything I did was for that purpose alone.

I stopped letting myself do what I love, justifying it as making time for the things I needed to do. On the surface of my mind I thought that would solve my problems, but I was only being controlled by my emotions once again. Instead I was making myself miserable for the sole purpose of harming my already ragged self.

I refused to allow myself to be with the people I loved. I told them that I had to study. I told myself that I have depended on them more than necessary. But I really thought that I didn't deserve to be cared about, to be laughed with, to be loved. In the end it was all just self-hatred and self-punishment.

I realize now what a fool I was. I felt only distain towards myself, and so I harmed myself and worried others in my futile attempt to "fix" the problem. And still, I know it will happen again when I fall back into that spiral of self-hatred. Until then, I am who I was once more.

Greetings

Hello

I am

I don't want to be

Goodbye

Conscious Unconscious

Every night I sleep a little less. And every time I finally give in to sleep I sleep a little more.

The night is no longer the restful place it once was. It is instead, a harbor for the delusions of my mind to become closer to the reality of the day. When the sun sets, my mind takes off, running rampant over the serene field that is my sanity. It seems to know that I am defenseless towards the visions it creates in the darkness. Dreams mix with reality without my awareness of the passage between the two. I am unable to trust the world I see, for it always carries the possibility of being a lie.

My dreams too, keep me from sleeping. Even when I am no longer physically able to stay awake, I do not want to give in to the unpredictable world of the subconscious. Yet, when I am awake I am still haunted by the nightmares of the nights when I allowed myself to give in to sleep. I cannot allow myself to go back into that haunted world. Each stretch without sleep is a little longer than the last.

When enough time has passed without sleep, I finally have to give in. My body can no longer handle what my mind forces it to do. I prepare myself for the coming cold of sleep and let go. In the time when I let my consciousness disappear, I sleep for a long time. The sleep is numbing, thoughtless, as there is no energy to spare for dreaming. It is almost pleasant to feel that nothing.

When I awake from my slumber coma, it feels as though years have passed while I slept. My mind aches with a sort of pain that cannot be described, for this is no physical equivalent. Perhaps it is the sudden shut-down of my rational thoughts that causes it, but whatever the reason, it leaves me unable to think for a long time afterwords.

My physical body too, is affected by this long shut-down. It aches in one constant hot wave, moving around to reach places in which I did not know could feel pain. I am left in a state of physical exhaustion because of the "rest" I had. My bed becomes the only place I am willing to be. I stay there for hours, thinking nothing, moving nothing. I am awake, but I lie still, being nothing. Sometimes an entire day passes before anyone forces me out of my state of nothingness. Each time I lay still for a little longer.

I wonder if someday I will stay awake long enough that when I give in I will simply never wake up.

The Wall

A white wall stretches out in front of me. It reaches out in both directions as far as I can see. It towers over everything, ominously looking down upon my diminished self. I think I might be able to see the top, but it really could go on for ever and I could just be tricking my mind into seeing the vertical end of the wall.

I need a way to pass to the other side of the barrier. It is an urgent matter, I remember, but the reason now escapes me. The surface of the wall is smooth, unblemished, and flawless. I was hoping to find footholds with which to climb, but there is nothing to be had. The ground too, is impassible, as it is frozen solid into stone. Instead I begin to walk along the wall to the left. The wall cannot possibly go on forever.

The whiteness of the wall continues as far as the wall does. It stays the same untouched colour, never changing and never fading. Soon it begins to blur, creating gray spots in my vision and begins to affect my balance. The white is too repetitive and hypnotizing. I start seeing other colours too now, blues and reds and yellows, all blending together in my vision, coloring the dull world. I know the visions are just in my head, but my mind has become reality.

And the wall continues on.

Intrusion of Sound

There is too much noise.

When it forces its way into the expansion of my mind it destroys what is there. The sound tears apart the long strings of thoughts until they are nothing more than shreds of ideas. The smaller thoughts are scattered, far from where they used to be and far from others similar to them. Everything becomes chaos when the sound breaks in.

The noise seeps into my mind, filling it with things that should not be there, foreign pieces of the world. The words of others are all around, and my natural defenses kick in, rejecting all that I hear. However, the defense only works for a short while. After that time, the thoughts and words render all my protection useless. Then, my mind is free for the taking and every idea that was once mine is replaced with those of others. My mind is no longer mine.

Even once I've run away from crowd and the noise and the chaos, the sound lingers. I can feel the hot breath of those words on my skin spilling from the mouths of the people from whom I have run. The silent place I have found only amplifies the battle raging on in my mind. It seems as though the physical crowd has simply transferred into my head.

Can I never have silence?

Scream

I wish I could scream into the darkening night.

I want to let go of the pressure inside me; of the stress building up; of the weight on my shoulders. I would be an earthquake, cracking the earth's crust open in order to relieve the uncontrollable energy underneath. Everything will spill out, blast upwards, fall everywhere, in an explosion of anger and sadness and frustration and freedom.

I want to feel my throat go raw from the shrill scream, over and over again killing my every hope of sounding normal for a long time afterwords. It will be a sound that is only ever heard coming from the depths of a person's soul. It will reach into the corners of the moonlit land and into the minds of all who can hear. Those who hear it may pass it off as the normal sounds of the night, but their souls can feel all the emotions rushing out in the sound of the cry.

But I cannot scream. Whether for simple reasons like the fear of losing my voice, or much deeper things like the fear of losing those around me, I cannot give in to that most primal desire. I cannot let the world know so openly.

So instead, I keep screaming inside.

When You Save Me

You saved me yesterday.

You made me laugh more than I have in a long time and gave me something to hope for. I felt whole with you, like how I used to feel. I did not feel ashamed of the things I did or the things I said. Even when I managed to mess things up, I knew it would be fine because you were there to hold me together.

Now in the morning of the next day I am back to where I was before. I can still feel the happiness of yesterday lingering, but it is in the background of the pain of now. I feel as if it were all a dream. A dream in which I was someone who others wanted to be around. Someone worth knowing.

I need you to save me again. Every day I will need you to save me from the world and myself. I fear that I may fall apart on the days when you are not there. But I cannot always depend on you to pull my out from my hole of darkness; I must figure out how to depend on my own strength. Until then I will just have to hope that you are near.

When will I be able to save myself?

A Dying Heart

My heart is thudding deep inside my chest. It won't slow down to let me rest. The way it slams into the sides of body feel like it is killing me, and the feeling reaching out in tendrils of hot white pain.

It should make me happy to feel the way that muscle beats. I have been wondering if I am even still alive. The sensation of something still assuring my existence should be a relief from the nothingness of before. Instead it kills me to feel this alive.

Perhaps the thudding of that mass inside my chest is not really a sign of living. It is actually a sign of its continuous dying. Every beat, every thud, every movement is just one closer to its ever-nearing end.

I wonder, would it be better than this?

Cannot be Saved

My savior could be standing right in front of me. She could be the one to pull me out of the darkness, to dig me out from my sinking grave. He could be the one to help me fix the broken ends and piece me back together. But somehow, I cannot seem to let him/her in.

I have always been the one to put others back together. I was the strong one, the optimistic one, the dependable one. I am the big sister, the "smart friend". Others are supposed to see me as the hero, not as the frail maiden who needs rescuing.

I cannot accept my own weakness, my own dependence. The help of others is something foreign to my very nature. It is not something I know how to accept. She may be my hero offering to rescue my very soul, but I am unable to let him save me.

Faith in the End

When the end comes, how many of us will suddenly change the faith they have?

Those of us who have always claimed faith will try to prove just how loyal they were to their god by proclaiming to others. They will become the announcers on the street, trying to "save" others from the eternal darkness of the religion they have always claimed. They will become the people who try to force faith down the throats of others, pretending that their belief was strong all along.

Those of us who have always truly believed will feel safe and indifferent to the plight of those around them. "They should not have turned away" they will say to the less faithful. They will stop trying to become better people, convinced of their eternal happiness guaranteed by what they have done in the past.

Those of us who believe there is no greater power will suddenly realize some mystical calling and try to make up for their sins of non-belief. They will search too hard to find a sign from the greater power(s) and end up convincing themselves that they were chosen to be saved. One day they would be rejecting a faith in anything but what they see, and the next they would praying like no one has ever seen before.

Whether the religions of today are true, changing the way we act on the last day will have no difference. We are who we have always been. Do not become someone who you do not want to be now.

Puppets and Heroes

I could have been a puppet
Following every order
Loyal to the masters who held my strings

I could have been a hero
Who rose up against them
Fighting for the weak ones without a way to speak

Instead I chose a life
Without purpose
Or meaning,
The middle ground that I thought
Would hold the answers
To all questions

In the end I found
That I didn't like the freedom
But neither could I stand
Being held up by strings

I left myself
Unsupported
Not needed
Alone

Wandering
The empty path
Of existence

Words Near the End

Hopeless
Worthless
Endless
Lifeless

Time
Night
Silence
Truth

Tripping
Falling
Screaming
Dying

Float
Wish
Whisper
Drift

Deep in the abyss

Pretend

I can pretend, if that's what you'd like. After all, it's no different from what I have always done.

You want me to tell you I am happy? I will do that. Sometimes it may be true, and I really am the smiling, laughing, bubbly being that I seem to be. Other times it may not be anywhere near that. But you will never really know, because I will tell you that I am happy.

You want me to tell you that I care? I will do so. Often times I will really truly listen to your problems, fears, worries, and accomplishments. I will congratulate you or offer you advice and show you that what you feel is what I feel and that I really want to help. Sometimes I will only pretend to listen to you with the kind of attention you think you deserve. I will nod along and speak good wishes and make up some advice. But you will never know the difference because it will be what you want to hear.

You want me to try? I will try, then. I will go through the motions and learn what I need to learn. I will show that I put in effort to what I did for you. Most of the time I won't do as much as I could. I will do what is required, but I will not care enough to give it my all. Perhaps I will occasionally really dive into something. But it most likely won't be what you want me to care about. But you'll never know, because it will turn out as you required.

You can ask me if I really mean it. You can say that you know I often times pretend. But you will never really know, because only sometimes will I be telling the truth.

Tell Me

Why did I tell them? It was foolish, uncalled for, a pointless decision.

I wished for understanding and instead confused myself. I was so sure before I spoke, but the minute it left my mouth I wished to pull it back into my mind. I grabbed at the words and instead found nothing. There was only empty space. Where once the idea was concrete, unmoving, suddenly it became wild air, avoiding capture and definition. Or perhaps it was just their reaction that made me question myself.

I should have kept them in the peaceful dark. The issues are mine alone to deal with. No words from the outside should alter my decisions, no foreign thought contaminate them. The burden should not be shared when there is no benefit from sharing. I can deal with the world myself. There is no need to hurt others in the process. I care enough about them to wish them to be obliviously happy.

The input from them would not be of any help. Not much can be learned from those who do not understand. No matter how much they may try or how many times they may say they understand, never will they know enough to give the help I thought I needed. I should not have asked for something they cannot provide.

I should never have told them. I should never tell again.

Paint

We paint our walls to cover up the ugly colours underneath. We paint them to cover up the dirt and imperfections. We cannot replace them easily, so we paint to hide what we wish to replace. In the same way, I believe we paint the old walls which are ourselves.

The dirt we cover up is the filth built up from living in and using the room in our daily lives. It is only natural that we have that evidence of the life that has gone on there. However, we are told that we must always be perfectly clean.  We could clean the walls of course, but that would take much more time than we are willing to spend. So we cover it with a fresh new coat of paint. But the dirt is still there and more dirt will build up on top of the new paint.

Sometimes we wish we could tear down the walls entirely and start with new ones. We believe that change like that will change the entire makeup of the place in which we live. Not many of us have that luxury to rebuild however. Instead, we choose a new colour for the walls and pretend that they are entirely new. Of course, we know that is not the truth, but we tell ourselves to believe. We imagine that the old walls no longer exist.

The holes in the walls are the hardest to fix. We patch them up with something much weaker than than the material it started out with. The patch is made of something different, and will never be quite the same as everything around it. Society tells us that we must hide the fact that we had that hole to fix in the first place. So we paint over it. But the hole is still there. It simply hides beneath another layer of paint.

For Her

I wasn't there when I should have been. I should seen her morning smiles, her tired yawns, her brave face against the future. I should have held her tight when she was scared and brandished swords with her against invisible enemies. I should be able to remember her face without having to think.

I didn't know her as well as I should have. I should have asked about her favourite songs, her best friends, her biggest dreams. I should have listened to her problems, no matter what they were and given the advice I was able to give. I should have been her friend as well as her cousin.

I didn't help as much as I should have. I should have sent money, sent more prayers, sent letters everyday with my supporting love. I should have finished the thousand papers cranes to wish for a miracle. I should have brought the entire world to her cause.

I couldn't have been there. I couldn't know her as well as that. I couldn't have done everything. But I should have.

Selfish

Cruel

Cruel

World.

It takes

takes

takes,

And when it gives,

It does so

only once.

Counting My Life

Last night I sat on my floor, making marks on myself. For two hours I sat there making tallies with my pen.

Each tally stood for something. Some of it was simple; the number of series of books I own, the family members I have. Others meant something more. They stood for the people who know my secrets, the mistakes I have made to those I love, or others stood for dreams that I know are far beyond my reach. Every line I drew means something a thousand times bigger than the ink it is made of.

For many of the tallies, I have forgotten the significance. Many of them meant something that spanned my entire being, but it has been left behind by my memories. One second drawing a line represents years of my life, then means nothing at all in the next moment. How odd it is to forget something that meant so much to me only hours ago.

By the end of the night, I had marked a thousand times. My arms and legs are black with the ink I used to count the meanings. I wonder how I was able to even have so many things worth marking in my short life.

Why did I start to count at all that night? I'm not sure. Perhaps it was insanity, my very rationality slipping away.

And so I keep adding to the tallies.

Fearsome Battle

A Very Short Story

"I believe I have underestimated you" the young champion remarked. His opponent did not reply. The man waved his bat high above his head, sending it down with a thundering crash. He missed.

"I have yet to be defeated by those much bigger than you!" he shouted. Still, there was no response. The enemy's big eyes stared up as his feet scrambled backwards. He backed onto something thin and sticky. He climbed.

The fear was evident in the hero's eyes. The audience too, was quivering. They had never seen their hero so threatened before. The young man gathered his courage and swung. Stifled gasps could be heard throughout the crowd.

The opponent lay dead. He was a harmer of no one, but an enemy of all. His body lay crushed beneath the bat, his eight legs splayed and lifeless.

My Old Friend

There he sat in the corner, gathering dust. He used to be a part of my everyday life, but now he only sits there, watching bits of the life I have now. I wonder what he has seen over the years, be it beautiful moments or tragic events. Perhaps he has grown just as I have after all this time.

The days when I notice him send a wave of regret. His big black eyes beckon me back to his soft embrace. They call me back to simpler days when he was my only friend, my only care in the world. I long for those days, but I cannot go back. That time seems so long ago. His shining eyes seem to ask "Why did you leave here alone?"

The dusk still falls onto his faded fur. In the rays of sun reaching through my windows I can see how it clings to him, coating him in a thin layer of invisible pieces of the world. He is falling ever farther into the past. It is long past time that I am rid of him. Still, I cannot seem to let him go.

Little Girl Alone

"Help me" she cried into the silence. But no one could hear her. No one ever chose to hear.

Her hands waved frantically into the darkness. But no one could see her. No one ever chose to see.

She grabbed on to the people nearest her. But no one could feel her. No one ever chose to feel.

The little girl is all alone. Just as she always has, she lives without another soul to listen to her thoughts or glance at her face or hold her hand. The silence and the darkness and the space less world close in upon her very being, crushing her mind as well as her body. She is all alone.

Paper Life

There are many books sitting on shelves across the world who will never be read. There are many other books who will forever be kept close, read by many people and many times by each person.

How marvelous are the books who are forever being opened and passed on, who sit by bedsides and are the very inspiration for the lives of others. These books may never have a day to rest, but are overjoyed to be so important to the world. Their spines may be broken, dust covers lost, pages torn, and corners dog-eared. They may be covered in dirt from the places they are dragged, scribbled with writing, rebound, and faded. But these books know they are loved.

How pitiful are the books who are left untouched. They sit waiting to be opened and their souls uncovered. The keeper may not recognize the title, or these stories may not yet even have keepers. They are left unread to gather dust and impress shallow humans, alone for the rest of their existence. Some of the well-known ones or the young ones may have a future in a well-read home, but for the others there is no future except a deadly pulp mill.

The more daring books may venture to sit in a bookstore and try to be bought by an individual human. Those whose are fortunate enough to be bought usually end up content in a small library of a single home; a more glamorous existence. The others are sent to be mulched or pulped, living only a short life of reckless hope.

The more cautious would choose to be part of a library. There, there is plenty of company, but no permanent owner or permanent home. Many temporary keepers are abusive, others are careful and respectful, and the books never know when they will be returned to their home. It is more dependable to be content than a bookstore, but more humble of an existence.

An electronic book in the eyes of a paper one is a robot. There is no tangible soul to an e-book. The words may mean just as much and have souls themselves, but there is nothing to hold them together. It can be copied into a new one that is exactly the same. It's existence is merely a fleeting moment of bliss, then nothing at all.

What kind of book am I?

Lost Logic

My logic has left me, it seems. Like the dreams you wish to remember, it has simply disappeared.

I used to see the world in a logical point of view. Yes, I had my private artistic ramblings and rearranged ideas from the reality everyone else had, but I also had my logic. I could depend on that realism when times were tough. It was my form of optimism, in a way. Instead of seeing everything from the negative side, I saw it as it really was.

But now it seems there is only small traces. I have it for the times when I must prove a point, but otherwise it lets me struggle on my own. Though it is gone, there is no optimism to replace it. I find, instead, a more pessimistic view on the angles of the world. It is as if I am looking up from the shadows to the light that I will never reach.

The loss is affecting everything I do and everything I say. I wonder how long it will be before my companions can no longer count on me to be the mother figure I was. How long it will be before the logic will leave me completely? I fear for when that time comes. That day I will no longer be able stand without my cane of thorns beside me.

The Mask

I put on my mask again. The mask of lies and smiles. It covers everything from my toes to my head, although it seems to miss my eyes. It must, I suppose, so that I can see.

It is a mask of white. Of purity and light. Of the way I used to be and how I used to think and speak. Of how I used to sing to the world as if every day was full of music and love. And how I used to dance and draw my way through every thought. Or how I used to think my way through the problems of each moment. It is a mask of me before I needed a mask.

I fear the mask is not thick enough. It is beginning to turn a little gray as the colours underneath become darker and darker. It seems it is breaking as well. The cracks are more visible to my eyes now than they have ever been. I fear they may soon be visible to others too.

Sometimes I don't need the mask. In fact, I am so bright that it frightens me. I become a colour that will end up blinding my eyes if it happens too much. The flash never happens for very long, however. It comes as if it was thrown at me, but doesn't stick because there is nothing holding it on. The contrast left over makes me seem twice as black as before. I am left with an instant of being without my mask and I again fear that others will notice what is underneath.

How I wish to rid myself of this fake white face I hold. It no longer even fits the real one underneath. It was made for the old me when an emergency caused the dark to appear. That old dark would soon fade and the mask was able to stay untarnished for later use. Today's black no longer fades. I wish I could make a mask that fits the me today. But seems the white material has run out, leaving with only the old mask to use.

And so I continue to wear it.

When?

When will I cross into tomorrow?

When is no longer today?

Where is the border of time to the future?

When will I stop being a child?

When will I be and the adult I was promised?

Who decides if I am old enough to be my own keeper?

When will I find that special someone?

When will I no longer be alone?

What will tell me if we are meant to be like all the stories of love?

When will I find my reason for living?

When will I know why I'm alive?

Why is it that no one has the answers to life?

The Question of Time

Shall we stand in the shadows of tomorrow

Or shall we peak into the light of today?

Will we fight for the causes of next generation's strife

Or leave it for the younger ones to figure out themselves?

Should we prepare for other days' prosperity

Or find some of the simple happiness now?

Is it worth it to change what the future may hold

Or to wait for that time and let it happen as it may?

Is the time ahead more important

Or should we live in the moment?

Myself a Statistic

I am just another statistic. Another set of numbers, another piece of data. I am simply another unknown in a computer that knows everything about me.

In school they say my name, but that is all they know. I am one more student out of a few thousand this year and thousands upon thousands more throughout the school's history. They do not understand how I think or how I speak, or what I do. I am a part of this or that, I take this class or that class. Those bits of information could turn me into something more, but those classes and clubs too, have turned to numbers.

In my choir I am a little closer to being the human I am supposed to be. Here I am a voice. But I am one voice out of seventy every rehearsal, and one out of hundreds every performance. I will be forgotten once I am gone as those before me were forgotten. I will be again turned to numbers in the computer sitting in the office.

With my doctor, I am supposed to be the most human. He knows everything about me, and deals with human illnesses, not numbers. But I am written in computer charts. He only knows me because the numbers tell him what he knows. My diagnostics become data in the nation-wide system, and I eventually become part of a statistic that will soon be forgotten, saved for the day it is needed, which will never come.

Someday I will work. The day that happens will be the day my humanity is gone completely and only data exists. My boss will see me as another tool to work towards his goal, and his boss in turn will see him the same way. I will be a part of a company like all the others with a hierarchy that is the same hopeless ladder of power. I will clock in when I am told and my time will be converted to data. The work I do will also become another archived piece of useless information.

The words I compose here too are simply numbers. They are zeros and ones running through the machine sitting beside my feet. I am one of over 150 million blogs spread into the far corners of the internet. Even here where I bear my soul to the world, I am nothing more than a statistic.

Chapter None

And so it was that the world burned. We never saw it coming, although all the signs were there. Perhaps it had been the many signs that caused us to not know. Instead of accepting the evidence, we chose to block them out and refused the truth that our time was coming to an end.

On that day we also burned. Our bodies grew hotter and hotter as the planet did. Like in the town of Pompeii in earth-history, some of us turned instantly to stone under the lava of the world melting around us. Others suffocated from the smoke and ash of other burning bodies. Some of us caught fire from the flames around us and were burned to death before the rest of the havoc began. The lucky few were turned instantly to ash, swirling and falling in the sky.

Others tried to escape by boarding rockets bound for the space-void. It was a fruitless effort and the ones in those ships had it the worst. They had to watch the planet and people die before them before finally noticing the heat coming from the bottoms of the ships. The flames ignited there before any other place on our planet. So the bottom melted off; the material was made for icy void conditions, not for anything like the tragedy below. The breathing-gases escaped the ships and they died not from the heat, but because they lost could no longer breathe.

I say "we" while telling this story because I too, died that that day. Somehow I was "saved" from one of the safe-boxes in the core of the planet. It was designed for the core, so it did not melt completely, but inside I was almost baked alive. It seems I am now in a permanent care facility being kept "alive" by the machines I sense around me. Even this I cannot be sure, for I cannot hear, nor see, nor feel, nor smell, nor taste. I can only think. And so, trapped in my own mind, I look back on that day with envy of the ones who burned. I would rather be dead than have only my insanity for the rest of eternity.

With All Due Respect

How can I be expected to sort out your life when I can hardly understand my own?

I understand. You need some comfort. I have always been willing to listen. I have even been willing to let you put your problems into my metaphorical "to do" pile. However, there comes a point when there is nothing left for me to do or say. My willingness dies very quickly once the third month has passed. Or the fourth. Or the fifth. You are at the point where you no longer need my shoulder every second of every day.

You sigh a long, loud sigh every time I mention anything she liked or anything you did with her. You sigh nosily whenever you catch a glimpse of her. You sigh heavily whenever you see a spot where she once had sat. Everyday all I hear is one long sigh. I do not think this is about her anymore. It is about me. It is about your need for my attention. And my attention is wearing thin.

I have said all I can to you. I have given you advise when you needed it and agreed with your every word when I could feel you wanted me to. Promises have been made, messages have been passed, and time has been spent. I have learned to read you better than anyone can. What I have found once I was able to read you I knew all along. You want this to go on. You want to keep being carried by me.

I have my own problems, you know. I cower to my own fears and fret over my own worries. I struggle through my own hardships and deal with my own love. There are much bigger things to deal with than one short high school fling. I am more than your blanket to cower under and hide from the world. I am a human with my own mind to sort out and unravel.

Starting today, I can do nothing more for you.

Torn Edges

We were the same soul once, I believe.

We were a radiant soul full of life and knowledge. Somehow that soul split apart, as they sometimes do, and sent two pieces flying off through the void in different directions. The split was not clean and smooth as it should have been, however. Each half managed to grow into a new soul, but each was broken. They were  souls with torn edges.

Such a time was long ago, but now the story is mine.
I am one of those two broken souls.
He is the other.

We have suffered the same ailments of the mind and have discovered the same things about ourselves. We find happiness in many of the same things, and can speak to each other just as we would want to speak to ourselves.

We are not soulmates. We are not soul siblings. We are the same soul, one a little more broken in one place and the other a little more broken elsewhere. The torn edges of our souls match.

Hopefully, we can help each other heal into the new souls we were meant to become.

Land of Almosts

Within myself is a world beyond the grasp of reality. The laws of life and the common world have no hold there, in the place without a name.

I try to grab something, anything, but the moment I feel close enough it slips away and transforms again. It is no longer what it was and will never be the same again. It has returned to the state of almost-being.

The nameless world is border-less, constantly changing shape whenever the edge seems to be near. It shifts and morphs, its almost-colours obscuring a secret that will never be uncovered.

Words have no meaning there. The moment they are formed the world steals them away to be bound and combined with the rest of the almost-ideas. There is an immense potential for something in these almosts. A potential to go beyond what has ever been created before. As always in this place of mystery, the almosts never become solid enough to be used.

There is an ethereal air, fragile and powerful, delicate and all-knowing. It covers the space and follows the ever-changing absence of reality. The feeling seems to suggest something lurking in the non-existent corners of the unknown world. That something seems neither good nor evil, but promises a chaos that will upset the rules of this lawless land.

If I spend too long in the place without reality then I will lose my grip on all I have ever known. The chaos will eventually come and I will be there to feel it, but for now I return to the accepted world.

Writer of Words

They tell me I need to change. They say I should be someone else, someone I am not.

That I should be less forgetful, less unpredictable, with more of a purpose and more of a plan. That I shouldn't spend time drawing, reading, or dreaming. I should stop thinking of things that have never been done. And though what they ask is true for perfection, it is too much for one person, just one little girl.

I like being this human that I have become.

The advice-giver, the ear-lender, the friend to all who need it.
A singer, a dancer, a speaker no matter how I look or sound.
The thought creator, the impossible dreamer, the unwritten story waiting to be heard.

I cannot leave myself behind to become someone else.

Remembering the Present

Have you ever zoned out by remembering the past? It could have been reliving a memory or just thinking about small pieces of past. When you finally wake up from that memory it seems as though you have jumped forward in time. Everything had just felt so real in your mind. There was nothing that set it apart from what is actually happening. Only when you wake up do you realize you had slipped into your memories.

What if everything you are experiencing now is just another of those memories? Your present self is actually years ahead, sitting frozen, staring into space. Others around you are wondering at your sudden silence, but you cannot hear what they say. Your mind is back in the past. It is just a matter of time before you wake up and go back to the present.

If what we feel now is just a memory, it shouldn't matter what we do now. It has all already happened, so the choices we make have already been made. The "future" is already decided from what we have already done. Nothing we do will change anything, because what we do has been factored into the true present time. We can just sit and watch our past selves make the choices that affect a later time.

It boggles my mind to think as if this were the truth. Everything would be easier if it was. The problems I feel would already be over and solved. But this is not the truth. I must continue affecting the future and trying to solve my problems.

Or perhaps, that is what I remember believing.

Sleep

I cannot sleep, it seems. I find myself once again awake when the sky is at its very darkest and sound only comes from the nocturnal creatures outside. With my bedside lamp turned on I feel as if I belong in another time when that lamp would instead a flickering candle. The glow is warm, enveloping me in its comforting light. I compose these words in a leather-bound journal reminiscent of days long past.

Still I wonder, what is it that has kept me up this night?

My mind seems empty, void of all thoughts. Perhaps it is that emptiness that keeps me awake. It is a feeling that was always so foreign to me. More recently it has come to be an ever present sensation as I lie awake in the night. It is no wonder that I would find no comfort for sleep when such a feeling lingers in my mind.

Or perhaps this empty feeling is more of a numbness. It is created by my own mind to hide the unbearable number of thoughts and ideas that lurk in my subconscious. It is a strong dose of painkillers for a suffering that no one would be able to bear. Sometimes the pressure of all the ideas does seem as if it will break me apart. If this is the reason for the numbness, I should not be surprised that my body would someday develop a defense for the blow.

As I write this out, I seem to have broken through to my pool of thoughts. It seems to be overflowing once again. the sensation of my mind once again filling up is familiar to me. I would rather have this incomprehensible mess of questions, thoughts, ideas, and plans than that numbing emptiness any day.

Perhaps now that my head is again buzzing, I may be able to sleep.

Instruments

Drum beats are the rhythms of my heart.

Harp songs are the stories of my dreams.

Bells and chimes are the laughter in my  life.

Violins play the songs of my sorrowful days.

Vocal melodies are the words swirling in my head.

Trumpet calls are my moments of revelation.

My life is music.

Beautiful Simplicity

I find beauty in the simplest of things.

The pile of freshly folded laundry on my mother's chair, the way the sun bounces off the desk on which my work is sitting. The glow of the computer in the middle of the night, as I type away on an unfinished essay. The water as it swirls down the drain, and the surprise of unexpected phone call or text.

The sound of paper shuffling or of fingers tapping away at a keyboard. The muffled sound of the television while my father catches up on the news.The padding of my dogs paws as she runs toward something that catches her eye. The scratch of a pencil on paper in a silent room.

The scents of oil pastels and paint. The smell of freshly cut wood takes me back to my carefree days I spent in woodworking at camp. The aroma of damp earth after a morning rain.The crisp air that shows winter for the first time. Even the sweat after a run seems pretty in its own way; it proves that I have accomplished something.

I wonder what everyone else finds beautiful

Running

I keep running. Running from the pain, running from the fear, running from the unknown.

My heart pounds as if it will explode, but I can never stop. I am out of breath and the air is gone, but it is nothing compared to what I face if stop to breathe. My feet are raw from the ground beneath me, but if I stand still, the glass I am running on will just cut into me further. I will never stop.

I can hear it following me. That monster that has kept me from stopping will never stop either. It's claws feel so close to my skin; it seems to be getting closer. I run even faster, but nothing seems to keep it away. What did the monster look like again? I have been running for so long that I don't remember anymore. I cannot turn around to look, as that will only slow me down. Perhaps it is better not to remember.

The day blur together. Every day is the same chase. Every day is filled with the same overpowering fear. The land in front of me changes a little, but I only care what is right behind me. I look forward to the days when there is shade from the sun, and the nights when the wind is a little calmer. I can never really remember those days, however. All I know is the unforgiving desert in front of me.

Maybe what I am trying to escape from is not as bad as it seems. Maybe I could stand up to it. Maybe I could fight it off. Perhaps the pain is merely a bad dream. Perhaps the monster chasing me is only in my mind. But the fear is overwhelming.

So I keep running.

Do You Know?

Can you hear my voice when I'm calling?
Can you see my eyes when I'm crying?
Can you tell that I am wanting to run strait to you?

Do you know that I am watching?
Do you feel that I am waiting?
Do you care that I am always there, taking care of you?

When will you understand?
When will you know my call?
Will you someday know the care that I have given to only you?

The World of Song

It is far from silent. The chatter of the happy lunch-goers is everywhere, filling every space. But, here the sound is muffles. Through one door, then another the world is not cut off, but it is softened. The harshness has turned to a comforting hum to keep out the silence.


Here, I can hear my thoughts. However, I did not come here to think. I came to sing. I plunk a note on the piano. It is out of tune, but I don't mind. It is enough to remind me why I feel so at peace in this room. I am alone with my music. I am able to sing as loudly as I want, and put all my emotions into the music.


Songs of every type fill my head. I hear ballads and rock, top-of-the charts pop and ancient folk music. They swirl around in my mind creating a beautiful symphony that will never be able to be heard in reality. With these beautiful sounds in my mind, I feel as though I can reach the highest star. The physical world is thrown away when music takes over and my thoughts become all that is real to me.

I sing in French today. The words I sing are unknown to me, but the meaning of them can be felt through the way the notes lift and fall on the page before me. I can feel beauty that the song is written about, though neither English nor French would ever be able to accurately describe it in words. Some things can only be accomplished in music.

My duet partner joins me after a short while. The world I created with my music falls apart for an instant. I don't feel as though I left anything behind though, as we are about to create another world with our song together. This world will be even better, as it will also have harmonies.

My Many Lives

Sometimes I don't like the real world. I'd rather escape to somewhere else.

I would rather be a dragon rider, sharing my journey with my mythical-beast friend. I would learn the spell-casting languages of the naturally born spell casters. I would practice my sword fighting and become the best sword master in all the land. I would fly beyond the known with my dragon companion, taking on new adventures with my newly honed combat skills.

I would rather be a star-fleet officer, trailblazing a path through the unknown reaches of space. I would encounter new peoples and create diplomatic relations between races with whom we were enemies before. Nothing would stand in my way of unifying and learning about the universe. Anyone who would try I would gladly take as a new challenge.

I would rather be a small-town girl who meets the boy of her dreams. I would chase after him with all my might and only hope he would realize my existence. He would somehow find that I am the girl of his dreams, and together we would face many trials. Against all odds, our love would somehow succeed. Our trials would inspire our grandchildren and foster many more love stories to come.

The many stories and tales I would love to live will never be mine, but I am happy to live them, if only while the story is being told.

My Future

I want to be an artist.

I want to paint the canvas that is the world. I want to tug at people's heartstrings and make them care about things they never even knew existed. I want to show the world the beauty that can be found in the most mundane of places. I want to explode in a blast of colours and words, pictures and poems, thoughts and dreams. I want to create a new world from the fountain of my mind.

I want to help the world learn to see.

Electricity

Today I realized how dependent on electricity our society really is. I had known that our world requires it, but never had I realized just how far the extent our dependence is.

This realization came about during a power outage in our area. At the time the power shut off, it was sunset and many of the lights of the neighborhood were just turning on. My family quickly realized that unless we did our work by candlelight, progress had to be halted for the day. Our solution to the problem: go to sleep and set our cell phone alarms the time the electricity was estimated to come back on.

It was then I realized that our society simply stops functioning with the lack of power. Our factories shut down, our heat and air-conditioning shut down, and some people's lives shut down without the life support that electricity provides. Some people cannot even entertain themselves without a computer, television, or video game device. We send ourselves into our own off-mode of sleep. My own mother grew up with almost no electricity, but somehow she too became dependent on it.

Though electricity provides an almost infinite number of positive possibilities in the world, I feel that we should take note on just how dependent we are.

Struggling and Forgiveness

Is there no second chance? Can I not be forgiven?

What can I do when mistakes are made? I cannot apologize, for there is no one to apologize to. I cannot make up what I missed, for the time has passed without my knowing. I cannot pray, for even God will not change what has already been done.

I am left with nothing but my own stupidity to keep me company. I keep running from the mistakes I've made and struggling against the force trying to pull me under. Wouldn't it be better to simply let myself be pulled under? However, that is not possible because someone is keeping me above just enough so that I still have to keep struggling. I am unable to stay above, and unable to peacefully drift under.

Where is the relief?

Home Sick

I find it odd how when I am forced to stay home from illness, I value the time much more than on any other day.

While it is logical that I value the time so much, it makes much less sense that it is more important on these days. Every Saturday I spend the day wasting my time, and during the week I seem not to care. Perhaps it is knowing that this day is a rare occasion. After all, I try to avoid sick days because of the hassle they later produce.

When does it seem most logical to be so time-wary? Though the true answer may be always, such an answer is not realistic. Is it ever a good idea?

Second Photos

I decided to search for a few more photos that I had already taken. I came up with a few more, and discovered many of them were from my brother's graduation almost a year ago. Somehow, the photos make the emotions much stronger than the graduation ceremony itself did. Looking back on things always seems to intensify emotions doesn't it?

Old abandoned hotel rooms

Lonely graduation caps

A content stray cat

First Photo Post

Authority

What gives authority to those who claim it? Whether it is age, experience, talent, or money, the only true factor is simply power and attitude. I can be the oldest, most experienced, most talented, and richest, but still be placed as a subordinate if I do not have the attitude that says “Listen to me”.

While I could turn this into a government-bashing rant, today I simply am pointing out how his applies in everyday life. When I was younger, I listened unquestioningly to my elder brothers and parents. I seemed logical because they were so much older. I assumed that age was what was important. However, as my younger sister grew, I found that this wasn’t the case. She began to see that if she would only have the right attitude, I would give in to what she wanted and listen to what she commanded.

While this is no longer a problem, I find that this still applies to my daily activities, no matter where I am. The authority in school changes with my every action. In a classroom the teacher has authority. In the hallways, every employee of the building has authority. And if I would do some action that is considered extremely unacceptable, the ultimate carte-blanche goes to the dean, principal, or school officer. While the ultimate would never happen in my case, I find it amazing how with my every movement, the power shifts and expands.

My power only shows when I am needed by others. Even then, it seems, they are simply following my instructions in the case that it might make me feel inclined to solve their problems. Though I do not thirst for anything like supremacy, I do wish for an ear every once in a while to listen to the opinions I have.

The ultimate authority in this world I have found belongs to people that you would never think of. They are the few who do not follow the usual rules for power, and instead stay quiet, never trying to fight for control. These are the people who usually say nothing, for when they do speak, everyone expects wisdom and insight from them. Even a powerful king would listen to a hermit that speaks out for the first time in years. A vicious and horrible dictator would make sacred the words of a monk who had been sworn to secrecy. If you looked at a mime one day, and he whispered something in your ear, you would at least think about doing what he asked, for it must be important for him to break his silence.

What gives authority to those who claim it? Though the world may listen to those who look like they have power, we would all be better off listening to those who never speak. Maybe silence will lead to a better world.

Time

Time is a thief. It is a giver. It limits and breaks limits, creates and destroys.

Time is horrible; it is wretched. It is a thief, stealing away those we love and cherish, things we have always cared for, and taking away the life that is so short. My little cousin's greatest enemy is time. If she was old enough to truly know what time is doing to her, she would be afraid of time. Every day she grows a little closer to what could be her end, never knowing how long she may have. The cancer growing inside her since the age of two makes every second that goes by into a year’s worth of my time.

And yet, time gives more than anything else. For my cousin, it gives her more appreciation for what she has, and affects me in the same way. It heals her when she has a cold as only time can do. It lets her keep what she loves closer to her than anyone else will ever have the chance.

Time creates limits. It keeps us from doing everything we want to do, because there is simply not enough time. I cannot concentrate on my education while training in multiple sports and perfecting my skill in art and music. I run out of time to do it all. It limits the amount of money that is made in a day, a year, an entire lifetime. Thus, it limits what can be provided for families and the people around us.

Somehow, time also breaks limits. By keeping us from doing everything, it forces us to choose the most important things in our lives. Because we choose, it makes us better at what we have chosen, and breaks the limits and expectations we had for ourselves. It also breaks the limits on what society expects of a person. When time is limited, sometimes the impossible becomes reality for those who are desperate. There are stories of people who, in the most limiting situations suddenly accomplish feats that are not humanly possible.

Time is many things, but it is never something to be forgotten.

Those We Miss

Many were so sorely missed
Many are now sadly missed
Many will someday be missed

How horrible is the one who takes them
How wonderful the one who creates them
How passionate the one who loves them

If they could decide would they decide well?
If I could be in control would I control well?
If you could choose would you choose well?


Many were so joyously living
Many are so amazingly living
Many will be so wondrously be living


Love the life that they will have
Love the life that I will have
Love the life that you will have

Middle of the Night

I love the silence of the night.

At first, the only thing I can hear is silence. It is beautiful. Free of the noises of the day, thoughts can run free in the night. Then, I come to notice the humming of the vent beside my feet. I hear the blinds swaying and rustling from the draft passing by, and the creak of the bed as my sister turns over in her sleep. I wonder about what she is dreaming.

Sitting at my computer, I can hear the sounds of my fingers on the keyboard and the click of my faithful computer mouse. How nice it is to let my fingers channel into written words what I can not usually say. My little dog reminds me of her presence when she sighs a sleepy sigh. It is a gentle sound; it comforts my restless soul. The wind whistles outside, reminding me of how nice and warm this house is.

The chair creaks. I hear a car zoom by. I imagine a scenario that explains the reason for the passengers of the car to be in such a hurry in the middle of the night. I am envious. It would be nice to be able to just drive away and escape like that. I will find somewhere for me to escape to eventually.

I look at the clock. It reads 2:24. Everyone around me is surely asleep. I realize that my leg is asleep as well. How long have I been sitting here? The silence blankets over me once again. I yawn. Perhaps it is time for me to join the others in the world of dreams.

Life's Song

Music is the metaphor for life.

The many harmonies are the different parts of a life that are kept separate but still blend together. Without harmonies, a melody would still sound nice, but it would leave the music feeling empty. Similarly, a life with only one focus will feel unsatisfying.

Dissonance in the music are the points in time when commitments clash, when people fight, and when things are not going the way they are hoped to go. No song is ever completely made of dissonant notes, and eventually those notes are passed.These clashing notes are the parts of the song that make everything else beautiful. When a dissonant pair is passed, anything afterwords sounds like the most awe-inspiring chord ever to have been heard. Just as it is with life, the contrast between bad moments and good moments makes the good moments much more appreciated.

Every part of a musical piece is simply a metaphor for life. Perhaps that is why I am in love with music; I am in love with life.

The Halo Effect

As I was walking up the stairs to my next class today, I was mesmerized for a moment. The light streaming down from the window above me was brighter than I had ever seen. That was not what made me stop walking though. Instead, it was the effect the light made on the other people walking down the stairs. They seemed to be glowing with an unearthly light.

Even though I knew it was simply a trick of the light, I couldn't help but be transfixed. A certain girl stepped into the sunlit spot. She seemed to glow even more than the others. Perhaps the girl was glowing in such a way because she was a sinless and faultless girl. Had a higher power chosen her specially?

The sun ducked behind a cloud and the glow faded. She continued down the stairs, not noticing that she had become an angel for an instant. I began to think again. I had not known the girl, but for an instant I had become sure that she was a perfect being. What were to happen if it had been someone I had known?

If I were to see my friend bathed in that light, the least I would do would be to cherish her a little more. Perhaps I would realize that she is an angel, if only to me. And what if I had seen my most hated enemy seemingly blessed by a higher power? Perhaps I would think a little differently that what I usually saw. Instead of only remembering the reasons why that enemy is so hated, I would think about why she is loved by someone. After all, that light would not shine on someone truly evil.

Perhaps my whole point is that the way light shines on things changes the way they are seen. As with movies, different lighting makes all the difference in what comes to mind. Things I have known my entire life become new again, and things I was once afraid of become the most comforting. Look at the world in a different light.

Fuzzy Friends

Making friends is great. Friends are necessary parts of our lives. Personally, I value my friends more than anyone could ever know. But even knowing this, why is it so easy to lose touch with someone that used to be so much a part of my life? In half a year my closest friends become a distant presence, and when we meet again, it is like having to remake the entire relationship.

The reason I am separated from people is usually because of a school change. Just moving from middle school to different high schools creates a gap between us. Ironically, we still live in the same places we did before, use the same telephone numbers, and still are the same people. Still, no matter how much we want to stay together, our friendship seems to fall apart. Why is it so hard to maintain the relationships you love the most?

What brought this topic up is that recently i met up with a friend that I haven't seen in a few months. Though it was only that short amount of time that I hadn't seen her, somehow we seemed to be mush farther apart then we should have been. Perhaps it was that my mind had been concentrated on other things and had kept me from thinking about her. Perhaps it was that I had made so many new friends. Whatever the reason, the feeling between us when we met was not what it used to be. It seemed as if she was a fuzzy picture of herself when I tried to look at her. I wish we could be the way we used to be.

In the end, my friend and I both pretended that we were the same close pair we always used to be. We ended up having a good time despite the awkwardness that existed between us, and even regained a little of the friendship we had before. I realize now that part of the distance between us was my own fault. I stopped e-mailing as frequently as I had before and I hadn't invited her over even once. This time after we part, I will try much harder to keep us close.

Snow and Metaphors

While watching the blizzard outside yesterday, I could not help thinking about the many things snow has come to mean. The blinding whiteness of the powdery blanket means something different to every person. Likewise, the emotions it can bring to each person vary with every individual.

When I look outside, I see a force that both unites and separates the people around me. It isolates me within my  house, or metaphorically, within my own mind. I can no longer connect with the people I normally see because the blizzard creates a blurring wall of snow that seems to go on forever. Being surrounded by the houses of my close friends and neighbors creates a sense of security, so being cut off reminds me of how alone I really am. Yet, at the same time, the snow unites us. Everyone affected by the storm looks outside and sees the same white wind whipping around. And when the storm is past, we all must help do the same strenuous labor to create a way out of our homes. The feeling of being united is even more prevalent when we all come together to help someone out that cannot make their way out on their own. This blizzard unites and divides us as it blows though our lives.

Snow also creates a sense of tranquility. When the snow is in a calmer state, simply falling from the sky, I feel something different from my daily life. A feeling of calmness and peace washes over me. The snow seems to be so accepting and calm, landing on everything and everyone with the same gentile touch. It covers everything in a blanket of white, making the world seem fragile and new. It makes it seem like the world is not as horrible as it is made out to be. I feel tranquil and at peace knowing that there is hope for this troubled world after all.

Becoming a Blogger

I always have ideas floating around in my head. They can be anything from well thought out poems to simple things I notice in my everyday life. However, these ideas have only stayed in my head, never escaping into the world where they belong. This blog is the way I plan to fix that. I also must not fail to mention that this blog is part of a semester project I picked for my English class, so I am held to the promise of maintaining this blog. It will not go abandoned like the thousands of others I found on my path to end up here. My writing style will undoubtedly change frequently as I learn to find my own style. In the beginning I will not stick to a single topic. I may not even make any sense at certain points. However, I promise that I will continue to keep writing and let My Ideas Grow.