Execution of a Sinner (Until I think of a better name)

They were not very quiet. Though, they didn't really need to be. If anyone heard them, no one would care to stop them from carrying out their task. In fact, Lorna would not doubt that some of the villagers would be willing to assist the night intruders. So, she ignored the whispers, footsteps and miscellaneous noises that slipped through the openings in her windows. Instead, she continued scribbling her most immediate thoughts in the small, leather-bound journal she reserved for sleepless nights such as this one.

She did not stop writing until the splintering of wood, probably the front door to her home, interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh, she brought the latest entry to a close, signed and dated it, then closed the little notebook and slipped it into a desk drawer. Ignoring the crash of plates and the rip of cloth coming from outside her bedroom, she sat patiently, humming to herself. A quiet knock quickly crescendo-ed into a ruckus she felt not even her self-absorbed neighbors would miss. Again, she heard the wood of a door crack, grate against the frame that held it in place, then splinter inwards, though this time the process was accompanied by the vibrations that resulted from the steady pounding and the uncomfortable sensation of wood splinters pattering against her back with the breaking of the door.

The group burst into the room, huffing and mumbling to themselves. Still, she kept her back to them, even going so far as to close her eyes and focus on taking deep and slow breaths to calm the heart that would not obey her mind's orders. She clung to silence, even as one man fisted his hand in the thick darkness of her hair and yanked her from her seat, throwing her on the floor into the circle of black clad figures. Lorna drew her focus to a dark knob in the floorboard, fastening her concentration on the small disfigurement to pull her attentions away from the pain that bloomed in her stomach, her arms and her legs with the slam of each boot toe and heel.

They spat names at her, the kindest of which was "whoring witch." She said nothing, and though her body would not let her fully contain the yelps and groans that the pummeling pulled from her, no one could say she did not make a mighty effort to do otherwise. Naturally, this angered her assailants all the more, until one (it's difficult to determine identity in the midst of a beating) once again utilized her thick hair to heave her face into a meaty hand, propelled with significant force by a hatred that extended far beyond words.

Rape was an option, but none wished for the poison the cursed creature would surely bring with the act, not that she was worthy of that sort of violation in the first place. Of course, this meant they soon grew tired of their bludgeoning ministrations, and were forced to progress from fisticuffs to armed retaliation. Granted, retaliation is hardly a fitting term when one opponent refused to fight back, but not one of the midnight intruders believed they were doing anything less than noble. Staring down at the woman, if she should even be called that, one man spit on her, then drew a blade from his side, only glancing up briefly to see his brothers in arms do the same.

To kill her quickly would have been more of a blessing than the monster deserved. So they gave her more than her due, cutting at every accessible piece of flesh until wounded skin could not be told apart from unwounded, as all was hidden beneath the blanket of blood that had spread over her skin like a sickening paint. If they were to be honest, the garish, red hue was a surprise to the lot of them, as any sign of humanity on their target could not be believed. She was a monster, a witch, a perilous threat to them all. Ridding the world of her was not only a duty, but a pleasure. So, they ignored the cries that sprung from her raw throat, merely avoided the pained thrashing of bleeding and broken limbs, and carried on with their work until all had had their fill.

Lorna was lost in the pain and the hurt, though she asked no questions of her punishment. She knew as well as they that it was what she deserved, that she was what they said, possibly more. The woman tried to bare it as quietly and compliantly as possible, but somewhere she had lost touch with her control and could do more than thrash uselessly and react violently to every slice, kick and burst of hellish pain that struck her.

Breathing hard, sweat streaking the spots of blood that speckled the men's faces, they stopped their gruesome work one by one until all were still. As one, they watched the woman jerk and thrash in the bloody puddle until she was still, save for the shaking of her chest as she sobbed to herself. Then, again as one, they stabbed, cutting deep. One in the heart. One in the stomach. One on her back. One after another until she was still, silent, dead.

Pity Party

One must wonder, what is the purpose of a pity party? You sit there, wallowing in sea of unhappiness, which is basically never an enjoyable experience, yet when some suggest you get up and leave, you refuse. That was probably a run on sentence. Anyway, it's a mystery to me.

I have no room to criticize others for this nasty habit, as I am one of the worst perpetrators I have ever met. I possess the impressive ability to dwell on a single incident for years. Even so, a simple thought, the flash of a memory, the whisper of a remembrance, and my mood shifts so drastically, I might s well have spawned my own raincloud.

I wonder why I do this. Is there some backwards chemical process that makes this state of mind addictive? Why else would I seek to return to this state of being time and again? Even worse, why would I constantly endeavor to bring others with me?

A happy conversation, rife with puns and good humor, turns south because I cannot, or do not stop my traitorous fingers form delivering the hint of negativity. It would have been better had the other party never been informed of my state of mind. It is one thing to mope around and drown yourself in your own struggles, but it is quite another to involve a friend, a confidante. I suppose one could make an argument for friendship and being able to rely on one another, or some such nonsense, but it could also be said that including the second party is a direct attempt to cause another suffering.

How sick is that? And yet, it is possible. Maybe I have some sick fascination with seeing other people concerned for me. Maybe some selfish part of me seeks affirmation of others' affections. To know that someone would be offended on my behalf, worry for me, care about how I feel, be concerned about my suffering. Maybe I get some queer sort of satisfaction knowing that someone else out there thinks I'm worth it.

But that's wrong, and completely unfair to whoever is hurt at my expense. It is selfish. Crude. Wrong. And the practice of one who is weak. Too weak for reality. Too weak to deserve the friends that care for her.

So, I'll just go back to moping around and hope I have the common sense, or at least the decency, not to involve another.

The Evasion of Happiness

For the last few days, I have been so blissfully happy I don't even have the words to fully explain it. It's a magical blend of peace, this irritating joy that radiates from my chest and a smile that never seems to leave my face. I'm not used to this. And because of that, I'm subconsciously trying to ruin it for myself. How stupid.

I start wondering: Do I deserve this? Is this really supposed to happen to me, or are the fates just playing a game with my head?

Then it moves beyond questions to a depressing sort of certainty. I worry about the future. About what this will bring. The consequences for myself and for others. Until I can't even contain the single bit of moisture that bubbles over the ledge of my eyelid and strolls boldly down my cheek. It's stupid and I know it, but so am I.

___________________

Anyways, I suppose I should write something else creative soon. Maybe it would help my mood, haha.  friend of mine once challenged himself to write something happy and soft and touchy feely. I don't know how well I'd do with that, but it's worth a try. Not right now, though. Too much non-mushy things going on around me. Something to think on.

Ghosts

There are some nights when it feels like all the ghosts come out to play. Old wounds open mouths, decayed by time and neglect, and with a ferocious and devastating moan, let loose all the plagues you had once thought conquered. Like a fierce rattling, it buzzes in the back of your mind until you cannot stand it and the bars that caged up those old fears and doubts break loose from their crumbling foundation, leaving you broken and weak amongst the rubble.

That's when it starts. The feeling crawls up from your stomach, one sluggish lurch at a time, until it sticks in your throat, restricting movement, air, speech. A buzzing begins, first it's just an echo, a distant disturbance in the hum of the universe, then it gets louder and louder until a mighty cacophony of all those tapes of disdainful words are playing simultaneously in your head. There's no way to make it, them, stop, of course. One voice fades out, another chimes in, and a few seconds later, the first is back to haunt you again...

Random (sort of) Morning Poem

Speak to me of Suicide

Speak to me of suicide

of dirty lies

and teary eyes

tell me of the world that be

instead of the dream you wish you'd see

Tell me what I need to know

show me that I'm not alone

Don't whisper sweetly over the phone

because reality's not waiting until I'm grown

Tell me about drinks and drugs

of depression veiled with empty hugs

Sing to me of broken souls

love and laughter gone when no one's home

share with me the darker nights

no joy abounds to redeem the light

Paint me a picture of the struggle I see

within and without the grim portrait of me

Draw me a sky overcast with cares

too easily given, though too unprepared

Don't speak only of love and life and laughter

then leave me to deal with the pain thereafter

give me a dose of the destruction I see

then help me get to where I should be

------

I'm sleepy now, so maybe I'll explain this later. Looking at my track record, though, I wouldn't get your hopes up.

Reflections on AWA pt. 1

There are many reasons why one might lose themselves in uncontrolled bodily spasms in the middle of a parking lot. Heart attacks, strokes, being tickled, being tazed, and more. My reason was a cosplay sighting. One figure, wrapped in the Akatsuki cloak I knew too well, strolled lazily away form the pedestrian bridge and towards the mall. It was enough. Nearly an hour and a half of travel, not accounting for the time I'd spent being lost after I overshot both my train and bus stops, had finally brought me to the promised land. I drew nearer and I began to see bit of paradise grow into clusters, paper signs blossom into colorful posters, and plain hallways morph into a grand procession of convention promotions, food tents and anime fans. There are only a few people here at the moment, but the wandering characters are enough to make me skip with joy.

A few moments and four turns later, I find myself facing one of the longest, most exuberantly colorful lines I have ever seen, and I arrived half an hour before registration even opened! Red, blue, yellow and green hair punctuates the string of bodies that winds back and forth through predetermined aisles. So lost am I in admiring the menagerie of weapons, costumes, talking and laughter, that I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that I am actually here. Then it becomes frightening. I'm in the big leagues now. My limited knowledge of a few obscure manga and anime, and my even more infinitesimal grasp on more mainstream anime is suddenly so apparent I feel it is a wonder they do not all shun me simply because I look like I don't belong. My clothes are frightfully average, simple and plain as jeans and a t-shirt can be. I'm clutching a folder with a schedule, directions, personal notes and the agenda I printed out the night before. My shoulders have hunched slightly because I am waiting for the eviction I feel my ignorance will bring upon me, and I, for the life of me, can't seem to make my jaw move from its state of suspended awe.

I probably would have stood there several more moments had my musings not been interrupted by a tall gentleman with frighteningly regular dirty blonde hair. Mute, I scuffle out of his way and to the end of the line. The people, even in their outlandish garb, seem normal. Well, as normal as one can be given the situation, but they are not aliens. There seems to be a distinct lack of pimple popping nerds with those thick-rimmed glasses only hipsters could find attractive. A healthy mixture of ethnicity makes up this particular crowd and I, reassuringly, am not the only one who was content to wear *regular* clothes. The girl in front of me asks politely for something on the table behind me. I am struck by her bold display of her stomach, and can do nothing but process her costume while I do as she asks. I can feel my brain digging through the little I know, trying to place her white hair and black and white cape. Finally, it hits me. I have no idea who that character is.

Stranger in the Mirror

I don't know who this person is. Have you ever felt this way? Your emotions, your movements, your personality is different. It's not like this was a gradual change due to external influences. No, all of a sudden I have become someone else. Someone inherently angry and violent, but I don't know who it is.

Body snatching is a joke, right?

I hear terrible things slip from my lips, and I wonder who said them. This isn't who I was, who I am, who I want to be. In place of the person I thought I was, I find this loud, insulting and cold creature who lashes out as though it were second nature. Not even that. It lashes out, spitting anger, hurt, and dark things I cannot even conceive, and it's all a matter of course. I wish that my stomach would roil in disgust, but I fear this body and the mind I once had are no longer one. If there were some way to rip this infection from my blood, cleanse what little soul is left in me, and return to who I was, I would do it. I fear, however, that may be impossible.

Then, there is a question. Should I kill it? I know no way to extract this being that has seized my faculties and wormed into my mind. Whether I cannot find it in me, or my new nature does not approve, I cannot manage to ask for help. It would, most probably, be the best course of action. Every now and again, a guard is relaxed and an eek of desperation flies into free air, but it is not enough. Inside, I scream for someone to save my soul, but this prison of flesh will not approve the message, instead banishing it to the dark and hopeless place within me that grows daily. I am so afraid. Of it. This thing I cannot control, cannot even comprehend. I wish the separation between it and myself, that I have created in words, were so. In reality, I fear we have become one and the same. Some part of me, small and weak, remembers the time before. The way before. The person before. But, it is not strong enough to affect change. And so, the thing I am most frightened of is not an alien or a monster, but myself.

So, I ask again. Should I kill it?

Much Like Suffocating

The cold metal of the mic, the ribbed texture of its head brushing against her lips, and the music. Only these things breached Leona's consciousness. Only these things were able to transcend the mindless haze of a screaming audience, bright, burning lights and the film of smoke spit from the mouths of the fog machines that lined the stage.

Her body rocked, of its own accord, already thrumming with the energy the guitars seemed to send out in pulsing waves. She didn't have to think about her cue. No, not for this song. The music called to her and her voice responded with calibrated abandon. Sure, the feelings started off simulated, but they never ended that way. The song, the words, the feel of the moment would never allow her to stay in control of herself. So she went along until swept away by the magic. Her eyes might have been open, but she couldn't tell. The crowd was there, but she couldn't see it. Even if she could, the residual feelings would devour the occasional image that made its way to her brain, then seat itself so overwhelmingly in her memory that she could not even offer protest.

Here it comes. Sparks of energy, first sharp then settling into a steady buzz, rained from nowhere and began to warm her skin. The guitar roared its part, fire flared in the background, and Leona was lost in the heady desperation that pulled the words from her throat and cast them into the universe. She clutched her chest as though she could rip her heart out and release this overwhelming force that compelled her to sing to the audience, to the heavens, to herself. Tears, unbidden, burned their way down cheeks, some straying so far as venture into her mouth. Disregarding the lyrics spilling from her lips like a plea to someone, anyone.

Somewhere, in some logical recess of her mind, she knew no one would really hear her. They would learn the lyrics, quote the song, scream it with their friends, but they wouldn't hear the brokenness that slipped between the lines. They would never see the frayed soul, scraping through life, hoping for some kind of release in the ink of her pen. The fans that flocked around the stage would never care for the heart she had long ago sacrificed for the pretense of self-preservation, self-protection. Her life, her struggles, her pain, splayed out on the public scene to be judged and ogled by all, would be forever invisible.

So she screamed all the more. Sang louder, put whatever was left of her into the last of the song. Letting the hope that seemed to rekindle every time die with the resonance of the bass guitar. Eventually, the chaos of the audience, the bustling of the crew members and  the presence of her band mates faded. The mic, now warm from the fierce grip of hands she had not known were shaking, dissolved and slipped through her fingers like dust. And she was alone again. In the dark. With a pen, paper, and the feelings that suffocated her.


------

Okay, Send the Pain Below, by Chevelle, actually has nothing to do with this, except I was listening to it while writing. Still wondering if writing works as a coping mechanism.

Intro to Intro to Creative Nonfiction (Day 1)- Free Write

-What are you experiencing right now?
  Well, I'll be honest. I'm cold and a bit nervous. It happens every time I come up to the third floor of the Cosby building. The doors open and I'm flooded with a barrage of thoughts and questions about whether they'll know I don't belong. No, I'm not an English major. No, I'm not going to be just a writer. No, I don't wrinkle my nose at the thought of a scientific theory, though I would argue it depends on the theory.


I like having a wooden desk though. There's always been something beautiful about wood grain, for me. I'm no carpenter, no skilled raftsman, but the time I've spent with wood makes it exquisite. No, that's not the word, but I'll go with it. It's smooth, the wood I mean. Stained a dark cherry something. I love the darker redish stains. They seem to carry a gerater weight.


-What do you think this class will be like? What do you hope to get out of this class?

I think this class with be a roller coaster ride. There will be days when I'm more in love with my craft than ever. more amazed by the scope and spectrum of this ting I love. more inspired to defy whatever obstacles I may face. However, there will be days when I will hate this course with all the fiery passion I ca muster in what will be, by then, an undoubtedly sleep deprived body. I won't understand what I'm learning, or why it has to be the way that it is.

I hope to finda new style  to add to my skill set, or a new perspective that will bring depth and color to what I alreadywrite. Learning to analyze life as  see it will aid me in creative believable world when I leave the realm of fact and logic. How can I trap a reader's mind in a universe of my making is I cannot see my own?

Emotional Writing: Part .5

It's been a while since I have simply come here to talk. How are you? Well? I hope so. If not, write something. I've considered doing an experiment on using writing as an outlet for insecurities and the like. Does it make a difference? Does it allow you to process the situation better? Does spitting out all those nasty thoughts keep you from wallowing in the negative feeling?

I don't know. If you find funding, I'll work on it. =P

I have been doing my share of emotional writing, as of late. It's interesting, and apparently enough to inspire concern in some of my friends. I've noticed that people aren't always amused by the same thing I am. I show them something I wrote because I thought I did well, and suddenly they're trying to psychoanalyze me because it was a dark piece.

Anyway, writing in the middle of a "mood swing" has revealed an interesting trend. I can't freaking write a happy piece. When I'm happy, I don't even feel like writing!

Things to ponder.

HARLOI

The room's darkness was thick and interrupted only by the somber glow of a fire. The blended oranges and yellows that spilled from the old style fireplace created an island of warmth, separating a few chairs and a small coffee table from the yawning blackness that filled the rest of the small library. Towering bookcases, stuffed with with leather bound, dignified volumes, lined the walls like sentries, carrying the weighty judgement of centuries. It was a cold room at night. Too big for one woman to fill with vibrancy after the sun ceased to aid her, too high for the natural light of burning wood to touch the lofty ceilings, too old for it to bend to modern ways and bits of technology.

Francesca noted none of the ancient room's imports, having long since adjusted to it from the days of her youth. Instead, she felt only the chill at her back, the smoky warmth before her, and the cool edge of the blade she traced lightly over her skin. This night carried too much importance for her to waste time marveling at pages filled with archaic knowledge.

Her eyes, caught in the fire, seemed to ignore the idle play of the metal weapon until the resounding echo of a clock announced the midnight hour. Standing, she strolled up to the mantle, gently running her fingers over the pattern that adorned the fire's frame. She took a log and tossed it on the fire, enraptured when it sparked and sent tiny embers into the surrounding air. Her movements had a feel of graceful resignation, a gentle restrain that left her light, but without wasted movement. Turning to the furniture behind her, she chose a nice spot where she could stretch her legs before her while keeping an eye on the only light source. As she sat, the delicate velvet and silk ensemble she wore, for the founder's banquet, caught awkwardly at her knee until it finally settled at her hips. With the obstruction removed, a queer sort of writing revealed the word "HARLOI" in all capital letters. The "H" was clumsily done, with multiple scratch marks surrounding the thickest lines. With each progressive letter, the raised and scarred tissue blended into clearer and defined handwriting. In the same way, the penmanship improved, the age of the scar decreased until reaching the single line at the end, still sporting the signs of a young scar. It was over this line that the point of the blade tickled the skin while Francesca played and stared at the flames before her.

------


I'll finish this Later. Just to make things interesting. Heh heh heh.

It's Been A While

I always thought that was kind of a stupid song, but that's not the point.

It's been a while since I wrote. Not just writing in general. In fact, I've just written two plays. No, it's been a while since I wrote something for fun. For me. In the world of published writers I suppose you don't get to do as much of that as you'd like. And even if you do, you can't just write when you feel like it, or when you've been struck by divine inspiration. No. There are deadlines and expectations. Draft after draft after draft. Then you have to hope the story sells. That someone, somewhere, likes it enough to print a few copies and put them on a shelf. If no one does, then I suppose you have to try to do it yourself.

So, I've been looking for random prompts. Little ways here and there to challenge myself. It's been slow going. The fire isn't what it used to be. Now, by no means do I believe it's gone. However, it's difficult to burn a soggy log. As mush sense as that makes.

One of my professors said the hardest part is finishing your first one. After you've written the first one, you have a general idea about the parts. How to construct them. Where to draw information from. What's more, you also know that the task isn't quite as daunting as it once seemed.

Even as I research them, it seems quite unlikely that my writing will ever be good enough for these literary magazines, let alone a published novel, but I have to hope. Every single author I admire had to start somewhere. Had to hope that one day, someone would fall in love with the worlds they created. Had to believe that somewhere along the way, they would have molded and developed their skills until they were "good enough." They all had to start somewhere, and so must I.

---------------

On an unrelated note: I am so freaking sick of "love."

Don't Feel Bad

It didn't look like much. It almost seemed like someone had left a little extra sugar in the bottom of the spoon, but it would be enough. More than enough.

Reaching over the half eaten bowl of chicken caesar salad, the young woman gently picked up the glass of orange juice and brought it to the edge of the table. Hopefully, it wouldn't make her drink taste weird, though it didn't matter much to her as long as it worked.

Another glance at the nearly empty silver spoon made her pause for a moment, then reach for a small bottle sitting next to the plate. A little more wouldn't hurt.Two quick taps to the side of the bottle dislodged just enough to turn the dusting of powder into a neat little mound in the bowl of the utensil. Carefully, she moved the spoon to the rim of the cup, then dumped its load into the orange liquid, swirling it a few times for good measure. She left the spoon in the cup long enough to replace the cap on the little brown bottle and then chuck it into the nearby trash can. Ninety dollars gone with the flick of the wrist, not that money was of any immediate concern.

The young woman put the thought out of her mind and once again lightly gripped the glass of orange juice before standing and moving towards the entry to the kitchen. Thoughtlessly, she stirred the mixture while she strolled from room to room, obviously contemplating something. Here and there she stopped to complete little chores like turning off the television, straightening the corners of the duvet, and closing a forgotten drawer. It seemed almost habit rather than anything else. Her train of thought brought her to the end of the small corridor and into her office library. It was nothing huge, but she was proud of every volume that lined the bookshelf covered walls. Yes, this would be the perfect place. Without looking, she chose a book and carried it over to pleasantly plump, leather lounge chair.

A tired sigh accompanied her slow decent before she crossed her legs, opened the book upon them and began sipping her orange juice.The acrid taste of the powder distorted the flavor of the juice slightly, so she swirled her drink again before taking another sip. An uncomfortable burning began to rise up in her throat until her tongue seemed to smolder in her mouth. Even so, she continued to read.

A few seconds later, the words on the page blurred and swayed until she was forced to blink in an attempt to steady herself. Her breathing had changed already, shifting to short, arrhythmic breaths that so greatly contrasted the young woman's calm expression they almost seemed contrived. Having given up on her reading, she placed a finger on the page, then sat back and took another long drag from the nearly empty glass. Colors blurred, faded, sparked to life, then blurred again before her eyes as her heartbeat grew more and more erratic. Her hand shaking now, she lifted the glass and placed it, as gracefully as she could manage, on the small table beside her before allowing the quivering appendage to grasp at the arm of the chair. Leaning back and closing her eyes, she let it come. Her last thought bringing a sardonic smile to her purpling lips. She hoped they liked her note. It was simple enough and gave good advice.

"Don't feel bad."

And she didn't. Not when she paid too much for the small amount of cyanide she would need, or when she mixed it into her orange juice, or when she took her last breath. No, she didn't feel much at all.

Input

It makes sense that one cannot create something from nothing. A river without a source will dry up. A train without coal will stop running. A writer who does not read will stop writing. This has probably been said in more than one way, more than one time over the years, but I am now certain that it is true.

In the midst of being a good student, friend and sister, I seem to have lost the time to enjoy my former love. I have said before that we find time to do the things we love, but that is not always true. If it gets buried deep enough, for long enough, we can induce a sort of pseudo-forgetfulness. I know for a fact that I love reading, would spend all day doing it as long as the material was interesting. Fiction and fantasy to me were freedom and escape. Worlds undiscovered took me away from the struggles of my day and delivered me into an otherworld. But, I lost sight of it. I am now in the constant pursuit of good grades, rationing out my time to one organization or another, and filling the rest of my time with juggling friendships and ignoring my personal problems. In all of this mess, my love is still true, but it is neglected.

If I am willing to neglect it, then how true can it be?

That is a question for another time. What I am commenting on is my observation that, with the decline in my reading, i have also started writing less. The ideas that used to inundate my mind have now trickled down to the same, repetitive, frightening nightmare. Just one. And what's worse, I cannot even put the tale to page. All colors, actions and emotions fade to dust if pen dare approach paper, or finger touch keyboard.

There is a connection, a strong one. If you wish to do one, then you must do the other. If you do one, surely the other should follow.

I'm sure there is more to say on the subject, but I may soon become delirious (I'm tired, so sue me.). So, until inspiration or boredom next strikes my  idle fingers, I bid thee adieu.

Just Stuff...

It's been a while since I've been here, but if I were to lament that, I would spend a great deal of time talking about nothing important in particular.

1)The death of the teacher.

Clearly, this whole teacher student romance didn't work out so well. I believe I wrote a grand total of one installment, then just kind of let it dwindle. I considered letting it go, but there is the hint of a challenge to it. The whole subject is something outside of my comfort zone, which is why I don't want to give it up quite yet. I might call it a project on the side. Something to work on in between projects, or when I need a release. Besides that, it will remain an uncomfortable memory.

2) What's going on?

I have been busy and not busy at the same time. Spring Break has come and gone, but little of what I had intended has been accomplished. It happens every year. I leave with the intention of  locking myself in a room to work for hours each day until I have successfully completed many tasks. Unfortunately, this never happens. I could blame it on family, travel, circumstances, or mental fatigue. I could blame it on a lot of things, but the fact of the matter is, it didn't happen and that is my fault. I won't drone on and on about my failure, but it exists.

3) Crazy?

Could I be crazy? It was suggested to me that my, sometimes seemingly precarious mental state could be more than the standard struggles of a college student. Maybe I'm clinically insane like I had feared, or maybe hoped. Maybe there's something hormonally off that make me a natural crackpot. Something is screwed up in my head. I knew that, but does science know it too?

Here's the problem. In order to find out, I may have to confront one of humanities most frightening creatures. A shrink. Sure, they're just people who aim to help. But they are frightening. Their purpose is to invade the sacred space of the mind, usually with kind intentions. Even so, an intrusion is just that. A breach in the safety net built up after years of mental self defense. All of a sudden, they expect the patient to let go of every hard earned safeguard so that they may spill their soul to a stranger. Hardly.

And what happens then? Once you become accustomed to this vulnerability? There is the ever present fear that you will be destroyed. Your gates are wide open, and there is no one stopping  the slings and arrows that life may throw. Even more broken than broken, you are led to a state where the only way to return to safety is to pay with blood to get medication and opinions from one plaque boasting official after another.

How is this supposed to help?



Just some stuff that was on my mind. Later, I'll add a piece I've been struggling with. I know that it is horrendous, but I cannot find it in me to try to improve it. Maybe the fear of public ridicule will provide some motivation.

Until next time.

Epiphany!

I've got it! I've finally decided what this blog is going to be about! Or, more like what this blog has been about all along. Excuse me for being a bit slow on the uptake, but once I realized where I wanted this to go, I couldn't help but share.

This blog is going to be about writing.

I know, fairly obvious. In fact, it's downright pitiful that it took me so long to realize that my subject was in the title I made myself! If this is what you're thinking, and I must admit, I am, then you are entirely missing the point! This blog will follow the life of a writer.

So what? You say.

There are hundreds of writers out there, several of which have already made a name for themselves and are so famous they could ask a stranger for a latte and they would get it. That's fine, I don't like lattes anyway. I've actually never had a latte before. That's not the important part. The important part is that I am not them. Who wants to read about someone who has already been published, already braved the rejection seas, and already discovered their areas of expertise and writing style? If you want to do that, you could go to a book store and buy the $20 book they've already written about their lives. You may also choose to purchase the eighteen dollar book someone else wrote about them,

Here I will put to screen the story of my journey. My goal is to publish my first book before I graduate from college. I know I'm not as revolutionary as the guy who wrote Eragon at age seventeen, but I'm not setting out to impress you with my youth. I write because I must. Because "there is a fire in my bones and I have grown weary of holding it in, in deed, I cannot." (It's from the Bible, go look it up. The Bible has a bunch of terrific one liners.) I write for me, but I have chosen to share this experience, this process, this journey with you.

That's not to say I will stop being random. I want to give you a real picture of a writer, and the fact of the matter is, we don't always think in straight lines. I mean, how boring would books be if you could see the ending from the beginning?

Well, now that I have made this announcement, I'm going to sleep. The sooner the better. Who knows what adventure tomorrow may bring?

Just...alone

First of all, I want to apologize. This blog started off on a fairly hilarious note, promising hilarity and good observations galore. Instead, you have been inundated but spontaneous questioning and the wayward thoughts of a mildly conflicted adolescent. I have nothing humorous to offer you at this instant, but I shall ndeavor to add variety to this drab and depressing collection of consciousness.

Now, to the point.

Sometimes, you just want to be alone.

I mean, sure people are great for providing support and good advice. They can give you guidance and direction when you can't see the lighter side of dark. But, not always. Sometimes you can't even help yourself. Whatever you want to say, whatever you wish you could say is swallowed up by the intensity of the moment. So you may think about inviting another into whatever you are experiencing, but then the fear, the doubt, the reality of your conjured depravity sinks in and the thought of revealing this other side of you to another is nothing less than horrifying.

Granted, this isn't always the case. Sometimes, you just want to be alone to process the moment. That's fine. That's healthy. People don't always respect this fact, but when you can get that time alone to process, you can come out on the other side better than you started.

But, that's not what I mean here. I'm talking about that feeling that is so beyond your comprehension that you lack the ability to do anything but feel it. Not just that mental flurry of association whenever it pops into your head, I mean that insistent pressure on your chest. It hurts. Actual, physical pain. If the seizure in your chest wasn't enough to pull your attention away from everything else, you might have felt your heart pounding in your ears, noticed your breaths shortening, realized that your arms trembled just the slightest bit.

To let anyone into this personal prison would be, in a word, unacceptable. Unthinkable, impossible, pick your word.

Snow!

Snow is an excellent prelude to hilarity. People handle it differently in different parts of the world. In my corner, they freak out and prepare for the apocalypse. It's actually rather amusing.

Blinds close, people avoid the outdoors as if it were a plague, a woman is seen traversing the not-so-wild terrain of an outdoor mall in snow gear and skis, and of course, someone, somewhere, sees fit to provide us with the obligatory "Wet Floor" sign at an intersection.

I grew up in Michigan. Snow isn't a big deal. Snow days don't exist until you've got around five feet. Otherwise, wake up, suit up, and hop to it. Down South, this mysterious white powder is the harbinger of much panic and fear. Schools close, people stop delivering, and food is scare (not really, but it is for a college student).  Alas, we must suit up to brave the elements, and head out into the wintery land. None but fools and adventurers dare travel here.


...Ridiculous.

Friendship

One must wonder what happened?

Friendship, once upon a time friendship took more than a text message and an errant facebook request. Sure, shallow friendships have been around for forever, but I cannot help but feel that friendship has not been taken so lightly until recently.

There were records of friends so close, they were practically brothers. Women who wrote letter after letter, started organizations and schools, and helped each other through the hardest of times.When you found a true friend, you held on to them with everything you had.

I've been deleting people on facebook, and I find amongst my friends people I didn't know, didn't like, and those who haven't spoken to me since we got out of "that one class."

Is this what friendship is supposed to be? Should we be surprised when someone cares enough to want to know more about us?

Well...I forgot where I was going with this one, but it's something to think about.

New Year!!!

Hello, my lovelies.

I don't know if you are aware of this, but a new year has started. Last year was an interesting one. I found myself, as many college students do, turning into someone I didn't like. As is the way with new years, I feel encouraged and empowered to return to the way I was before "the corruption." In truth, it was nothing illegal, but there was a certain relaxing of moral standards that a previous me would never have considered acceptable.

So!

We're going to change. I don't know that publicly declaring this on the internet is going to make the resolution any more permanent, but it's worth a try.

Maybe I'm the only one, but I haven't made my goals yet. Everyone seems to have dreams and aspirations, methods of measuring success numerically or otherwise, steps towards better habits, or new interests they want to pursue. As of yet, I have none. I just want to be better, I suppose. A thousand little things that I could stop or start doing, habits I need to pick up or start, but there's no real way to solidify them into one concrete goal except to say...Be better.