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.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
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...
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...
Saturday, October 22, 2011
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.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
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?
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?
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
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.
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.
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