Quiet Desperation

And miles of quiet desperation to go before I sleep...

I need something to happen.
I want to stop stealing the words of others
and to form my own.
I have to muster the courage to bring about change.

I just feel like I'm standing here.
Waiting for something to happen.
For a shift in the gravitational pull of Earth
so I can float up, up, and away.

But nothing happens.
And days turn to weeks turn to months.
Sometimes I think I'm locked up;
doomed to eternity in this two-star town.
But I'm stealing other people's words again.

Desperation can only be quiet for so long
before it bursts forth and bleeds out,
leaving smears of red anguish in its wake.
Desperation was a creature made to scream.

And so I strut, and fret, and continue to steal more genius vocabulary than my own.
Waiting for something to happen, too frightened to kick start it myself.
Three hundred and sixty six new days are waiting at the threshold
And maybe this year I'll bring about the change I wish to see in the world.

Silent Snow

It's cold outside, but it hasn't yet become bitterly so, and she makes the decision to keep on walking. The hour is late and the streets are mostly deserted, despite the warm light coming from inside the shops--extended hours for the holiday season. It's been snowing gently, thirty minutes hence, and there's a light dusting of fluffy flakes covering everything; streets, sidewalks, rooftops, and windowsills. It's still coming down, looking almost etherial in the orange glow of the street lamps.

Snow is the most silent of all phenomenon, and she relishes the quiet, hearing only the soft crunch underfoot and the first notes of "Carol of the Bells" somewhere in the distance. Holiday bustle has its own appeal, but this...this is something special.

Colored lights twinkle benignly at her from a shop window, in red, green, and white. She leans close to the glass, to watch the path of a small electric train around a mountain crafted from chicken wire, hard work, and paint. Her breath fogs the window and she brushes it clean with a gloved hand before going on her way.

She straightens her scarf and the snowflakes that have collected there are scattered, on her lapel, and on the ground, reunited with the rest. Though the snow is gentle, it is steady, and she knows that by morning, there will be a significant supply, sparkling and pristine, awaiting demolishment at the hands of children.

But for now, the silent snow and the empty street are a haven, and she stands for a moment, overwhelmed by the scene. It's quite appropriate, then, when she thinks she hears the strains of "Winter Wonderland" floating in from somewhere faraway.

On some days, long exhausting days--only the little things can improve a mood.
The cold snout of a puppy jabbing persistently into ribs.
Warm biscuits and sweet jam.
A snatch of "Rhapsody in Blue" hummed into the open air.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl (Or Same Story, Different Version)

I'm so ready to move forward with my life. But it's so difficult.

We're trained to think that our lives don't really start until we graduate high school, or college.

When have a steady job, when we start a serious relationship.
Or when we get married.
Or when we have children.

I feel like, if I'm not careful, I'll have lived my whole life waiting for it to start.
Besides, I don't want to do half those things, anyway.

Lately, everything is an irritation. Everything is sharp edges and hostility.

And I'm not making it any easier on myself.
Picking fights.
Complaining about my problems.
Obsessing over a future that I'm too afraid to trigger.

And I keep making excuses. So many excuses.

As soon as I talk to my parents.
When I've bought a car.
I have to wait until I have some money saved.
Everyone already thinks I'm flighty enough.

Simultaneously lonely and sick of people, I just want to run.
Go somewhere no one knows my name and start again.
Really do something.

But fear, or obligation, or this frustrating sense of responsibility....
one of them is standing in my way.
Perhaps they all are.

I feel so trapped, and knowing it's partly my own fault makes it that much worse.

A Brief Interlude...

If anyone is interested, I've started a new blog at At Attic Full of Ideas. While this blog is primarily freewriting and inspiration, the new one is to track my progress while I try to shape my novels up and get them ready for publication. So if you're curious, or maybe just a little bored, check it out!

Too Much/Exactly Enough

I just spent half an hour sitting on the floor of the shower, under scalding water, not thinking.
Because if I started thinking, I would start panicking about how much is going on in my life.

Too many days without sleep
Too many rehearsals
Too many tests, papers, projects, and portfolios
Too many demands and disappointments
Too many things getting left in the past
Too much to finish
Too many things left unsaid.

And I fear I can't do it.
It's all just too much.

But I've found that every time I start to panic,
Every time my eyes well up and my hands begin to shake,
God steps in and reminds me that He's given me exactly enough.

Enough encouraging conversation
Enough support from my family
Enough friendship and laughter
Enough stubbornness to combat lack of stamina
Enough love and grace
Enough inspiration, beauty, and motivation
Enough blessing.

In my most worried moments, He reminds me,
He is more than enough.

Stairs

Have you ever been walking up stairs, not paying attention, and you miss a step?
Your foot thuds down a little harder than necessary,
but there's really no harm done?
(Well, maybe to your pride, but if no one sees, it's really kind of funny.)

I suppose you've also walked down stairs, and maybe missed a step.
Generally, there's a moment of panic and then those blessed neurons fire
and you catch the railing, heart pounding, but uninjured.
Worst case scenario, you do fall, but usually backwards, and there's just a sore tailbone.

Have you ever been shoved down a flight of stairs?
By that bully that really doesn't like you?
Your arms windmill and you're pitching headfirst, a victim of gravity.
When you land, there's a sense of shock, and sharp pain where the bruises will appear.

And maybe for a second, it seems like you can't get up.
Perhaps, you don't really want to.
With grim determination and no tears. (Maybe a wince or two.)
You're back on your feet.

After all, it takes more than a bully to take you out.

Breaking the Surface

A new discovery is like a deep breath.
The kind that comes after you dive too far.
When you've overestimated yourself
and only blue water surrounds you.

You start clawing for the surface,
with salty lips, burning lungs.
You feel as though you'll never reach it
and your vision clouds around the edges.

Then suddenly, you're up,
bursting from under the surface,
gulping in huge breaths of air,
every single one feeling like a gift.

That's what a discovery sometimes feels like.
Maybe it's a discovery that not everyone will understand.
Perhaps it does frighten you, just a little.
But it feels like a weight off your chest, and you know it's right.

Reflections on Identity

I am a female.
All six of my siblings are brothers.

I am a resilient child.
The product of divorce.

I am quite tall.
My hair is obscenely orange.

I am twenty-one years old.
For the last sixteen years, I have been in school.

I am impulsive.
My temper is sharp.

I'm not very social.
Crowds make me anxious.

I hardly ever sleep.
So I play violin in the dead of night.

Often, I forget to eat.
When I do remember, it's a packet of saltines and a handful of Sour Patch Kids.

When I'm bored, I become incredibly destructive.
I like fire.

Heights and small spaces make me nervous.
I climb trees and explore caves anyway.

I'm a romantic.
But also a cynic.

I think most people are extraordinarily stupid.
And the ones that aren't are mostly bad, with only a few genuinely good ones mixed in.

I am very observant.
As a result, I make snap judgments.

I read incessantly.
And when the books are put away, I write.

I watch movies, too.
Way too many of them.

I abhor public speaking.
But there's no place I feel so at home as on a stage.

I place high value on my friendships.
Loyal to a fault.

Sometimes I think I'm going mad.
Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong time.
Place.
Family.

I am a walking contradiction.
I am completely imperfect.

I am a bit not good.
Sometimes, I might be a bit good, too.

I rant.
I read too much into things.

When I get mentally stymied, I make my roommate miserable.
Whenever my thoughts go too fast, I drag her out on adventures.

I put myself in dangerous situations without a thought.
Usually when suffering from ennui.

I like fictional characters more than real ones.
Except in special cases.

I really don't like being touched.
But even I can appreciate the power of a good hug.

There's a distinct possibility I might be a bit OCD.
Which is probably why I can continue listing things forever.

The state of my living space directly correlates the state of my mind.
It's oscillates between neatly cluttered and completely chaotic.

I am cavalier about my extensive vocabulary.
Furthermore, I loathe poor grammar.

I am not religious.
But my belief in a creator God is unshakable.

I create sad excuses for poetry in the dead of night.
And I don't care what anybody thinks about it.

I'm just me. I know who I am.
Can you say the same?