Two Days to the Future

Two more days until a new decade.
Here I sit, with bloodshot eyes, fighting off a week of nightmares.
I feel like I should say something, or do something to greet the oncoming year.
After all, it's year I graduate college and am thrown haphazardly into the "adult world."
And that's got to be significant somehow, right?

But I can't bring myself to think forward just yet.
The reality is too alarming, too near.
It's like standing on the edge of a skyscraper and knowing,
Knowing that you're about to be pushed.
And freefall is the only option.

It's not that I'm not excited about the independence.
Or the opportunity for growth that can't be afforded when you have a family.
These first years out of college are a weird middle ground.
There's responsibility, yes, but also the chance to adventure and brave the world alone.
It's thrilling.
It's terrifying.

I know I've got some time.
The first five months of 2011 will be celebrated in the relative safety of institution.
But then I'm on my own.
And I'm excited, yes.
But I'm also scared out of my mind.
And I don't think that's an unreasonable place to be.

So come on, 2011.
Show me your best.

The Future is Unknowable

The future is unknowable;
A conclusion that's hard to teach.
Worry and doubt prey on the mind,
Wondering when the stars will align,
But somehow it's still out of reach.

The future is unforeseeable,
Something we just cannot know.
When you have to decide
Between left and the right
You still can't tell which way to go.

The future is incomprehensible;
It's meant to be a surprise.
To move forward with faith
Is the one correct way.
You'll get your chance to rise.

The future becomes the present.
And you must be prepared when it comes.
There are choices to make
And adventures to take,
So go on and take up your drum.

The Crossroads

There was a point in life when the most frightening thing she had to face was a fork in the road. A decision between going left and going right, between a good choice and a poor one. A or B. Now that simple time seems so distant.

She stands at a crossroads, coat wrapped tightly around her body in a desperate attempt to keep in the warmth. A sharp wind loosens her hair from its braid and she reaches up to brush it back, her fingers temporarily exposed to the icy air. The sun is setting and she knows it will only grow colder from here. There isn't much time, but still she stands, paralyzed.

This is no fork in the road. There are hundreds of paths, branching out in each direction; north, south, east, and west. In the middle of the road is a large signpost, covered in arrows, but the words painted on them are too faded to read. Some point in nonsensical directions, as if intentionally designed to mock her.

Right now, none of the paths look particularly pleasant. One heading straight into the sunset is packed with well-trod dirt, but she can see clearly the heartbreak and pain that lurk in the shadows. Another path goes for only a few yards before leading to a precarious rope bridge on a high precipice. It's obvious that only cruelty and manipulation will be found down that road. Still another is winding and narrow, with cliffs of poverty and anxiety reaching to the sky on either side. A fourth leads down the side of a rocky ridge, towards a terrifyingly unknowable sea.

Where is the safe road, she wonders, the one that will take her safely to her destination? Where is the road lined with roses and bathed in sunlight? Is there no peaceful forest path to be found?

As the sun sinks lower over the horizon, she knows her time at the crossroads is coming to an end. She must make a decision soon. Gathering her courage, she prepares for the first step. It hardly matters that there is no easy road; she's not concerned anymore that she has no idea where she might end up. The only way to escape the crossroads is to step forward in blind faith.

And when the moment comes, that is precisely what she will do.

Hastily Penned in Impatience

Waiting.
Time drips like molasses;
Achingly, infuriatingly slow.
Nothing is louder than a clock
(Tick, tock, tick, tock)
When you're waiting.

It's almost painful, waiting.
Stuck in limbo
With only your anxieties for company
Wondering...
When?
(Don't forget, patience is a virtue.)

And now the edge of your seat
Is the only place you're comfortable.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting.
Who can know what tomorrow will bring?

The Many Faces of Love

Love is such a tricky subject. Everyone sees it differently.
Psychology says if a crush lasts more than three months, you're in love.
Your mother says you can't really be in love unless it's reciprocated,
But then why do all those novels and films talk so much about unrequited love?

Some say you fall into love, like a character might fall through a manhole in a slapstick comedy.
Others insist that you chose to be in love, and call those who love all the wrong people masochists.
There are others still that claim that love is nothing more than a chemical reaction brought on by the right combination of hormones.

And on and on and on it goes.

In many circles, it's normal to wait until later in life to find your love.
Elsewhere, you're considered something of a freak if you aren't in a serious relationship by the time you exit your teens.
Fathers insist you stay single through your thirties, while grandmothers send you letters asking why you aren't engaged yet.

Love is a verb.
Love is a battlefield.
Love is a drug.
Love is blind.
Love is patient, love is kind.
God is love.

So maybe, love is beyond comprehension. And I suppose for now, I'll have to be satisfied with that.

So no one told you life was gonna be this way...

Seems like you're always stuck in second gear.
When it hasn't been your day, or week, or month, or even your year...

Sometimes it surprises me how insightful something silly like the theme song for a sitcom can be.

This last week or so has been rough. Many unrelated circumstances that normally wouldn't cause me to bat an eye on their own, all converged at once making for a mess of girl. Sleeplessness, the loss of a beloved pet, family stress, stage crew, auditions, feelings of bitterness, inadequacy and doubt. Alone, they're nothing, but it's a hundred against one and I'm outnumbered.

I feel like butter spread over too much toast, to steal a simile, and I just want to fix it. So that I can get back to feeling like myself and, more importantly, so I can do a better job of being there for my friends who have things so much bigger than sleeplessness to contend with. What I need more than anything, is to realize that my problems are but a drop in a bucket and that there is something so much bigger going on here. I need to really See.

Tonight, I am in need of perspective.

Hope

Sometimes, she thinks the world is conspiring against her.
There's a little porcelain jar on the table, and she wonders.
Go ahead, her thoughts say, open it.
Little does she know that there's an audience screaming "don't do it" just a fourth-wall away.
Curiosity gets the better of her and she unstoppers the jar.
And all hell breaks loose.
Every doubt, every moment of uncertainty,
All of her fears, failures and phobias fill her head, freed at last.
It's amazing how easily Pandora is forgotten, until the moment after making the same mistake.

Only later will she struggle to her feet and pick up the jar.
She knows the story, but is afraid to look, afraid to see what might not be there.
But when she finally finds the courage to peek, there it is.
Hope, waiting patiently in the bottom of the jar,
Speaking to her in a still, small voice,
Promising that He has plans for her: plans for a future.
Plans of Hope.

A Case of the Mehs

It's not often I find words inadequate, but today that seems to be the case.
Strange things are influencing my mood--
The death of a stranger,
Being shut off by my brother,
Having wonderful friends who still love me (even when I give them skunk-hair),
Curiosity over hypothetical situations,
A silly picture on a silly blog,
This horribly persistent cold,
Oddly touching moments between animated characters,
The two hundred year-old wisdom of a pilgrim,
And I can't stop thinking about those Towers.

I'm not unhappy, far from it. But I'm tired, and a bit dazed from the cough syrup I took.
There's something new headed my way soon, I can sense it.
But as to what it is, and how it's going to happen, I'm completely clueless.
All I have right now is a restless energy and a faith that You'll show me when it's time.
I suppose that's what I get for asking for patience.

The Pit of Inaction

The thoughts in my brain are bouncing around so fast, clanging against the inside of my skull, begging for release. But I'm sitting here, stuck in some sort of Life-Limbo, unable to free them.

I've no motivation, no inspiration and no energy to fight anymore. After a particularly rough week, with the return to school looming like a black storm cloud on the horizon, I can't pull myself out of this pit I've stumbled into. Every moment of focus saps energy, and it's easier to just throw up my hands and concede that there's no climbing out.

To me, this summer of inaction has been a curse. Now I can't decide if it's worse to continue in this vein, or to actually make some sort of effort. Deep down, I somehow know that going back to school is going to be a challenge. There are things that won't be able to stay unsaid, in so many different ways and I find myself panicking at the very thought.

But it may be that going back is the only thing that can pull me out of this funk. A vine is being lowered and I can curl up and ignore it, or grab it and hold on for dear life.

There's still time, though. For the moment, I'm satisfied to climb onto the roof with a bottle of soda and watch the stars. I'm content to linger in this place of inaction for a few more days.

Sometimes

Sometimes, no matter how much you want something, it's just not possible.
He wants that job he just interviewed for,
She needs not to be jealous anymore,
They have to learn to understand each other.

Sometimes, it's under your control.
Take the things you want,
Climb the mountains you can,
Believe in yourself.

Sometimes, you can't control it at all.
We're not miracle workers,
Don't waste your breath,
That's life.

Sometimes optimism doesn't win--
Sometimes, it's just devastating,
But occasionally you aren't done yet.
Sometimes you're in the middle of the story and there are choices yet to be made.

Sometimes life takes you by surprise.

Summer for Two

This is Summer.

It's intertwined fingers and shared lemonade,
The weeds and wildflowers of an impromptu bouquet.
And showers of rain on the most cloudless day.

It's fingers stained purple from blackberry treats,
And lips kissed the same color, both sour and sweet.
It's sharing your headphones; dancing to the beat.

It's talking past midnight, with nary a care,
Smelling a hint of the sea in the air.
It's realizing that you do have time to spare.

It's ice cream that melts and drips down your arm.
It's old movie marathons, full of wit, grace, and charm.
It's wading in fountains when it gets too warm.

This is Summer.

One Summer's Evening

Pinks, purples and oranges mix on the horizon as the sun begins to set, looking more brilliant than a master painting. The two race to the car and she wins, effectively calling dibs on driving. The key is turned in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life. Peeling out of the parking lot, she laughs and rolls down the windows, euphoric. In the passenger seat, he simply smiles his calm smile and turns on the radio.

She opts to take the back roads instead of the interstate, their desertedness encouragement to accelerate. The wind whips her long hair about her face, but she takes no heed, devoting her energy to belting along with the music blaring from the stereo. Their glances meet and her contagious grin prompts him to add his tenor with equal enthusiasm.

No feeling can quite match it. They are on top of the world, just the two of them. Cool wind blows in their faces, scented with honeysuckle and the promise of rain. It doesn't even matter what's on the radio; they sing with zeal, whether they know the words or not, making up lyrics when necessary.

It's grown quite dark now and as they pass a vast pasture, she stops, suddenly, and kills the engine. Only by the glow of the almost-full moon can he see her raise her arm and point. All across the field, tiny pinpricks of light fade in and out. Thousands upon thousands of fireflies illuminate the night, more beautiful than the most extravagant Christmas displays. It's like magic and a nostalgia for childhood fairy-tales sweeps over them both. Thunder rolls in the distance, but neither makes a movement to leave.

In the silence, her hand finds his and when their fingers twine together, they know contentment. And in the moment that he pulls her out to dance in the field of fireflies, they know joy.

An Epic

Sunken treasures, lost legends, secret passages.
Daring rescues, narrow escapes, life-alerting moments.
Distant planets, dimensions, kingdoms.
These are adventures. These are the experiences of heroes and heroines.

People who start out ordinary but inevitably end up becoming...more.
A boy who just wants to get through middle school, a girl who was only playing a game of hide-and-seek, a young man who is satisfied to sit at home and watch the clouds float by.
Somehow, they all overcome their fears and doubts to do great things.

They're all stories, but there's an inherent truth about them.
Something that keeps them alive and fresh for generations of audiences.
And I wonder for a moment.
Maybe there is a talking frog in my backyard.

All that I know for certain is that I crave it.
I need it like the moon needs the sun.
Wanderlust rises in my heart and I'm off.
Forgetting, for a while, reality that lurks nearby.

Why can't life be more like an adventure?
An epic tale rather than a ho-hum day to day existence.
Why can't I ride a dragon, talk to a lion or face an evil villain?
Why can't I become the hero that the books are written about?

Dive

Standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering with indecision.
Far below, waves crash and churn, anything but inviting.
An icy wind cuts through bare skin and a faraway gull laments.
It's time to choose:
Leap or Run, take a chance or play it safe.
Pulse thrumming, mind racing, rise up on tiptoes.
Eyes squeezed closed in fear of what's to come.
One last inhalation before giving over to gravity.
Cold air whips past on a never-ceasing downward race.
Hair flies wild and eyes open for a peek with one psuedo-comforting thought:
This is a decision that could end in disaster or serendipity.

Keyboard Shield

Had it been two weeks ago, the silence wouldn't have been strange. I wouldn't have been distracted and the Tetris blocks would have fallen as they should. But it's anything but two weeks ago and the blocks pile haphazardly to a Game Over while I stare at the little green dot in the corner of the screen.

The worst part, perhaps is the sinking feeling, the one even I didn't see coming and the unnecessary disappointment. It's not exactly like you're breaking tradition or any such thing. But when our brains shoot into overdrive, it's not often that we get to steer. I have a very vivid imagination. And such mercurial behavior makes me wonder...

When is the world going to grow up and realize we have to face our problems and people face-to-face and not hide behind the anonymity of a glowing screen and hypertext? I'm just as guilty as the rest. Colon parentheses--and I'm not obligated to actually say the words on my mind. Some nonsensical acronym and we're done conversing. Behind our keyboards, we're comfortable and safe and we can say anything without consequence.

It's so much worse to over-analyze black and white text and emoticons than the beautiful subtleties of the human face, human hands. Your gaze, your grasp, your tone and timbre.

Don't you just want to look into someone's eyes and say what needs to be said?

Conversations

They face off from opposite sides of the room, she perched on top of the table and he leaning against the door, clearly ill at ease. Suddenly the statement that "you could cut the tension with a knife" makes sense. It's almost hard to breathe. He runs a hand through his hair and looks heavenward. She uncrosses her legs and lets one dangle down towards the floor, swinging nervously.

For what seems like the hundredth time, she wishes awkward conversations could be scripted, like in Grey's Anatomy or something. There are never million year-long silences in an awkward-serious Grey's Anatomy conversations. Everything comes out right away, and even if the characters are scared of what their words might do, they say them without hesitation. Why can't life be like that?

He opens his mouth, blinks and closes it again. A soft sigh escapes his lips. Hers is louder and more intentional, an expression of frustration and confusion. For a split-second, his lips twitch, but then his expression is neutral again and she swings her leg anxiously.

After another long moment, he looks up and their eyes meet. Panic floods her system and she drops her gaze to the floor. Eye contact is just as awkward as the not-talking that they are becoming very good at. Oh, if this were television, it would all be so much easier. Maybe she should start scripting all of her conversations.

The silence is finally broken by the trill of a cell phone and she wrenches her eyes away from the linoleum, surprised into staring again. He reads his text message and then straightens up.

"I have to go." They're the first four words spoken in what seems like hours and she bites her lip at how unaffected they are. He breezes past her so quickly, she doesn't even realize that he's deposited a paper napkin in her lap. The door closes behind him with an obscenely loud bang and she flinches, fingers closing reflexively around the napkin.

It's several minutes before she can unfold it, fingers shaking and mind racing. Scrawled hastily in blue pen are the three words that were so hard to say out loud.

She smiles and crumples up the napkin, shoving it into her pocket. Maybe this scripting conversations idea is not so bad after all.

The Dance

Sometimes it's a waltz.

Steady and flowing,

Measured in beats;

Nothing new happens, everything repeats.

Occasionally it's salsa:

Upbeat and fun.

Infused and electric,

Moving as one.

Or when it's swing,

Flying and teasing.

Laughter abounds

But rarely does reason.

Usually it's ballet

Subtle and smooth,

Darting away from you

As in a chess-move.

It's silly to think this way

I'm well aware,

But I wish you'd just dance with me.

Dance and not care.

Adventures in Wonderland

Life is it's own little Wonderland. There are no talking rabbits, true, but everyone of us has experienced a fall down the rabbit hole. We all know what it's like to face a furious Red Queen. Each of us has fled a vicious, snarling Bandersnatch or two in our day.

Life is an adventure and we should treat it as such. So many times, we simply refuse to engage--burying our heads in our textbooks and ignoring the caterpillar's advice. Why are we so fearful? What do we have to worry about? Life was, after all, made to be lived. We're supposed to adventure, to explore, to learn.

So get up out of your chair, take the key, eat the cake and journey to a strange new land. Banter with a Cheshire cat in answerless circles, laugh at the antics of a madman, and be sure to drink the tea he offers you. Be late. Slay your Jabberwocky. Walk upside down. Think outside of the box.

I promise you, life will be better for it.

Overactive Imagination

It's like this every time. The pounding heart, the irregular breathing. The stupid smile that creeps over her unwilling face. She has no doubt, either, that if she were to look into a mirror, her cheeks would be flushed and her pupils blown wide like she's received a head injury. Despite the protestations of her mind, every physiological reaction is intensified to a point of ridiculousness. One well-placed comment can set her cheeks aflame and her heart a-racing. It's nearly unbearable.

She hopes it's all magnified in her mind. Maybe, if she's lucky, only a few particularly astute people will see. Perhaps the involuntary glances will go unnoticed by most (one, in particular) and she will make it through another afternoon. After all, she knows it's useless to feel this way. For her attention to be noticed--much less shared--is as likely as sus scrofa spontaneously sprouting a pair of aerial appendages.

Nonetheless, evening comes and she succumbs to her overactive imagination. She recalls a moment when he'd grabbed her hand, trying to make a point, and she'd jerked away, fingers tingling as if she'd touched a live wire. In that split second, she'd been certain he knew. Or that late night drive, awakening to find she's accidentally made his shoulder her pillow. To wake to his eyes boring into her; it's easy to release the flight of fancy.

But these thoughts are reserved for midnight solitude and the dawn comes all too soon. So she tosses her head and laughs, promising that at the next midnight, she will not think of such things again, knowing, even as she says it, that it is a lie.

Such are the cruel tricks of an overactive imagination.

An Ocean of Doubt

What is the deal with all these D-words?

Doubt.

Discontent.

Disapproval.

Disappointment.

Discouraged.

Disillusioned.

I'm struggling with these words, and the feelings behind them. Something better waits, if I just let go, but I find my grip just tightens every time I try to shake free. Perhaps there's some thought of rescue, that if I just hold on everything will change. I've always been told tenacity's a positive trait, after all.

The irony is that what I'm holding is a sinking weight and the longer I cling to it, the farther I get from the surface and life-sustaining breath.

I'm sorry for my doubt. I don't mean to get discouraged so easily. I'm only human. But this is just as much an excuse as it is a reason and I know I need to try harder. In this case though, the success cannot be mine and doing my best isn't nearly good enough. The only option is to let go and hold my arms above the waves, trusting You to grip my elbows and pull me on board. Otherwise I'm tossed about, waterlogged and drowning, ears full of the D-words that make me sink.

Pull me aboard. I'm done trying to swim on my own. This water is too much for this foolish girl. Won't You rescue me?

Really Living

So often, we don't really live. Not like God intended us to. So I've taken this and run with it! Won't you join me?

The Quest for Forgiveness

Hypocrisy is an everyman word--I'm aware. You open the dictionary and my picture is there. So is yours. That doesn't make it any easier to look in the mirror. It never completely absolves you of the guilt.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I guess that must be true. Because the way I saw this turning out and the way it actually happened are two rather different things, and though I'm forgiven, I'm still wracked with shame.

Life is full of tough battles and choices and you never know how you're going to react to a situation until you are in someone else's shoes; oversized or pinching as they may be. Don't assume yourself to be better. Wait until you're a mile away and curse those untied sneakers. Turns out you were wrong the whole time and it is you who is the worse person. Isn't irony cruel?

Thank God for hope--literally. The easy part of forgiveness is accepting it, the tricky part is forgetting it. Slate clean, move on. Don't obsess over what's been wiped off the dry erase board. There's no need to rewrite it. It's done. Finito.

Finished.

The Musings of a Lonely Insomniac

I should be working. There are a million things, all lying undone, screaming for my focus. Some are in need of desperate attention. The word deadline pounds through the back of my mind, an almost-physical reminder of everything that has to be finished, or even started.

I could be sleeping. Taking advantage of these dark hours between dusk and dawn, the way the rest of the world does. Shutting off mental and physical facilities just long enough for them to recuperate for tomorrow. But Insomnia leaves me out in the dark, like a long-abandoned animal that still doesn't understand what's happened.

Nighttime pensiveness is stealing over me again. It happens time after time. I could be productive. I could rest. But there's something inherently magical about the twinkle of stars--some sense of breathless anticipation waiting on the edge of the brisk winter air. Aloneness and silence make a girl strangely thoughtful and every sense sets on edge.

Perhaps that is why I fear not the night, but you in the night. To take my innermost moments, and to find someone else is there to witness them is terrifying. Least of all because the idea is not completely repulsive. Somewhere inside of me, something stirs and a burning settles in the tips of my fingers--a desire to touch, to share, to express. I don't know what's happening; we could be anywhere and anyone--all it takes is a drop of darkness. All it takes is a little midnight...

And suddenly the dream vanishes like a wisp of smoke and I'm staring up at the black velvet sky, alone again. But, for the first time, I find myself desiring you to share it with.

Some Snowy Afternoon

There's something to be said for thick, slanting black eyelashes, framing a pair of wide blue eyes.

Something to be said for standing in the cold and spinning, spinning, until you fall, disoriented into the snow.

You can't discount gentle, ringing laughter that makes the whole world pause momentarily, just to listen.

There's something to be said for flushed faces, colored rose-red from exertion and uncontainable joy.

Something to be said for staccato puffs of white breath, mingling with the cold as weightlessly as a vapor.

And you certainly can't ignore a giant snowball bursting on the back of your head!

There's something to be said for intricate white snowflakes gathered in clumps on those beautiful black lashes.

Something to be said for the icy artificial tears they create as they're blinked away.

And no matter how you try, you can't forget the breathless realization of some snowy afternoon.

Panic Attack

Heart hammering, hammering

No exterior stimuli...

Stop it.

Please.

Tremors in the hands, the shoulders,

Shortness of--gasping--breath.

Why is it happening?

No, no, no.

Swallow past the lump in the throat.

Close eyes. Count to ten.

Breathe deep. Drink some water.

Stop.

You

have

to

just.

Stop.

192

It's been one-hundred and ninety two days,

Time that stretched into infinity.

A lot can happen in one-hundred and ninety two days.

Bridges can be burnt, alliances can be made (and broken).

Misinterpretation and gossip can run rampant.

It's been one-hundred and ninety two days,

Since you finally shared what I already knew.

We've had our differences since then,

And I have no misconception that the events will look the same

Another one-hundred and ninety two days from now.

In the last one-hundred and ninety two days

I have learned so much, experienced so many things,

Had so many illusions shattered.

One-hundred and ninety two varying emotions

Have built up in my heart, a cacophonous din.

In the last one-hundred and ninety two days

There has been so much I didn't understand.

In the last sixty minutes, it all makes sense.

But understanding brings pain and I realize

That even though I understand you, you don't quite comprehend me.

And of all the things that have happened

In the last one-hundred and ninety-two days--

In those six long months,

Being resigned to this is perhaps the most painful of all.

Worry

Life is fraught with adventures and trials. Damsels we have to rescue. Dragons we have to battle.

One of the most powerful beasts we face is Worry.

Worry keeps us up at night, wondering how we're going to pay the rent, how we're going to make it up to him, to her. Wondering how we're going to get through the coming day, week, month. Year. Simply asking that one-syllable question: "Why?"

Worry is a tricky creature. It doesn't charge headfirst, claws flashing and flames blazing. Worry is one of the tiniest dragons out there. She creeps in and you don't even notice she's there until she sinks her razor-sharp teeth into your mind. That's where her cleverness comes from. Worry lets you destroy yourself and relishes your pain. Once she's in your head, Worry is very hard to dispense with. No sword in all the world can cut this one out.

How do we fight back? What can we do to get rid of this nagging, aching beast? How can you eliminate a monster that makes such a valid argument?

How do you destroy a self-made demon?

A New Decade of Inspiration

Love humanity, exploring, opportunities , writing, and all other things that make one feel alive.

Hate all that which makes you doubt yourself.

Think originally and often.

Believe five impossible things every day before breakfast.

Feel every experience vividly and passionately.

Wish on stars, clocks, eyelashes and birthday candles.

2010 will be your year.

Don't make resolutions. Don't allow any doubt to plague you. Do the things you love, and the things that are right. You will be happy. This is the secret to turning over a new leaf.

As inspired by twistori.