School

School is an endless parade of due dates and awkward moments.

  I faced her, she wasn’t harsh, just magnificently big. She handed me my inadequate journal. I said nothing and her only reply was “It’s not finished, I thought you said you finished.”Her words were like a monster. It wrapped its sickly cold boney fingers around my throat steeling the warmth that held onto my skin. I choked a little, trying to fight it, trying to stand mighty and tall against my teacher. I imagined myself a great Roman warrior in metal armor, baring a sharp potent sword. And most of all I imagined myself as a person of courage and dignity. But I stood there the vision fleeting from my grasp. I was a small creature with no dignity and no establishment. So as coldly as the fingers had choked the breath out of me, I sunk into my seat holding the book that had labeled me undeserving. I let it sort of fall out of my hand and onto the floor. School is an endless parade of labels and due dates. And I am the aimless wanderer in the midst of the high school.

Faded

My dear, the days roll by and I am forgetting you. The way your words roll off of your tongue. I’m forgetting the gentle scent your skin gives off. You are but a watercolor painting in my memory and the colors are fading. Once the colors gleamed with passion, but now they are faint and worn with time and distance.

The hot air balloon

This morning I was imagining a lovely character. A seven year old girl who meticulously cleaned her room everyday, making sure each nick nack was exactly in its place. a very simple character trait but it suited my fancy for the morning. So as i was driving up the uncommonly steep hill, i saw a hot air balloon in the distance. It was softly grazing the clouds and slowly rolling past the mountains. I imagined my character riding ecstatically in the wicker basket, completely unaware of the world. Naturally, (i thought to myself) one would be if they started the morning off soaring with the birds, in the quiet serenity of the vast expansion of sky.

Dreams

The morning is a time of thought. 

 A time to remember the places that you’re subconscious took you, and a time to reflect on why your head thought of such a thing.

Many people dream weird random dreams. But I believe my dreams hold little secrets and when I close my eyes and enter into the world of my sub consciousness it is like unfolding these secrets.

I once had a dream where I was in a muddle. Set in the 50’s.

I was married to a man. Yes, he was successful, but very cruel and unjust. He farmed and killed animals. I hated him. Then there was my lover. My lover was a young man, Handsome, of course, with curly wild young chestnut hair. And even though he was “prince charming” he also was trouble. He brought confusion into my life.

My life in the story was a stormy troubled sea, and in one scene I ran into a little room. I closed the door and suddenly the tempestuous sea was still..calm. The room was made of old wood. There was a table in the middle of the room full of open paints, canvases, Books, bits of old cloth, and paintings. By and by the room was messy, but in a delicate way, as if every single thing was placed there for a reason. And the smell of the room.. it was the comfortable smell of old books and life. Yes living, breathing, thinking, and a beating of a heart. That smell that can bring a person to their most comforting memory. But not only that there were many windows in the room that allowed the sunlight to come into the room freely. However, this sunlight was not direct like it is on a mid summers day. No it was angled, because the sun was setting. The light was a flushed pinky color and it filled the room with feeling and warmth.

Now for the important part, the dangling pieces of paper from the ceiling. Each paper was strung together with old yarn and on the papers was paintings, and scribbled notes. Mostly scribbled notes.

I was enticed by the old and warn pieces of paper, so I listlessly sauntered my way towards them. Once I was under them I closed my eyes..and let all of my worries floated away. The sun sort of kissed me, and all I heard was the beating of my heart, and the soft lulling sound of the papers caressing my face. And when I opened my eyes I knew, I knew that everything would be okay. I knew that somehow I could always write, and create and do what I do best. Revel in the tiny little things that seem so small, but in the end are so grand because they bring our tempestuous sea’s to a desirous halt. 

The Hero of Our Story

Today I was reading an article on Hero’s and the author had a very good point. He declared that Hero’s are Hero’s because they do what most can’t. They endure the most emotional/physical pain.

People are very fragile emotional beings, and sometimes we need to be the hero of our story. An intervention into our natural way of thinking is necessary in order to live a better fuller life. So I encourage you dear reader to be the hero. To endure what you thought you couldn’t. plus, isn't she cute?!?

Thoughts

Tonight, I'm reveling in my conscious dreams.

The Nature of Life

The sun comes out with the treacherous heat.

I look to her and say a friendly hello. Then I run and dance in the streets like a child, Dreaming the world to be a different place. The bees chime in and we both flit around buzzing tunes. I notice the booming color from the flowers, and I stop to greet them.. but the flowers are vain and I quickly leave for I only dwell with blissful flowers. The ones that sway in the breeze with the meadow. They always have a pleasant word to say.

The day goes on and I soon find the frogs. They leap from lilly pad to lilly pad, and croak their words low and blurry in their mouth. I cant understand them much, but I don’t think they want to be understood. They’re just happy to croak around the pound. Of course I get bored with them and move on to the sky.

I lay on soft grass and turn my eyes towards the vast sea of blue that looms in my thoughts. The birds do as they please of course and I just like to watch them, and let their tunes carry my imagination to new heights. My jovial thoughts slow and I can tell that the sun is getting curious and peeking her head around to the other side of the world. But by this time I shoo her off. “I’ll be waiting“I breath. 

The breeze is invited to the summer evening. It brings a soft cool whisp. Then the moon peeks his crescent face at me. And once I smile at him, he rises further. We gaze into each others eyes and I tell him of times when I danced to my hearts content. I tell him stories of my adventures in the sun. We laugh and have a merry time. Then when our conversation slows I lay my head upon him, but before the morning light finds its way back to me, he sneaks off. Without a kiss goodbye or a sentimental word, he vanishes like a vapor in the night.

muddling through

I once knew a girl who was obsessed with those facebook games. You know Farm ville, Restaurant city, Happy island, etc. She was always number one. Her points were always so ridiculously high. And I always wondered, what compelled her to spend hours and hours taking care of a virtual world that does not even exist. But then it came to me, that we are more a like than I thought. She just does things differently than I. The time that she is spending on playing those silly games, I am spending scribbling away or rather click clacking away. And looking into artists and songs that relate to me somehow,or just sound like heaven.Yes my music can travel with me, my music can comfort me and I can cross it off of the list of things that I must leave behind. I get it. I understand her. To her the games are fun, and they offer her comfort. Writing and music is fun to me and offers me comfort.

And now my dear reader, you are wondering what I am trying to escape. It is simply this, saying goodbye. Leaving those whom I am familiar with and entering new territory. Unlike writing and music, I cant take them with me. They must stay where they are, and I must leave them. This is my tormenting reality. Naturally, I hate goodbyes. I hate the single idea, of having to let people ostentatiously leave. I would rather be lost in a stream of notes, or write the day away. There is always an end to the notes, but unlike people I can turn the song on repeat and listen to the flow of notes turn in my head once again. This is a season in my life for losing. And I find myself instinctively rejecting new acquaintances because I know they will unfortunately be another person added on my list that I will have to say goodbye to.

My sea

The first time i took a breath, I cried to the world. And my Father held me close to his heart. He cooed at me, he told me that I need not cry.

The first time I felt a boys touch, I stayed up all night. The feeling of him lingered in my thoughts. I wrote. I wrote, but I could never completely capture the feeling in words.

The first time I learned to write, I wrote myself a sea. I dug my roots and my feelings into the words. I haven’t stopped basking in that sea. I take a deep breath. Slowly unravel the rope that holds my ship. Then I take it to my sea. The adventures and feelings come as the tide rolls on. I am an island, and I cannot stray from my sea that surrounds my life.

The first time, I hurt someone. I hung my head.

The first time I walked into high school, I held onto the shoes on my feet. They were my dignity. Yes they got dirty in the process, the shoe laces black from many times when dirt was kicked on me. The sols worn thin from running away from lies. Running away from those eyes that would stare into my life. Running, running always running. But I came out of the journey bearing my shoes. I came away from the battle with my dignity.