Here’s Looking at You, Hope

Here’s to crying yourself to sleep with the Finding Nemo theme playing, grounding you in unreachable hope.

Here’s to sleeping in out of fear of depression, only to realize that the day is bright and full of hope, and you feel better.

Dear readers, don’t you ever give up. Life seems like too great a burden to bear some days, even for me. But it is always worth those sunrises when you feel okay.

Hold on.

“The List” or “I’d Like to Gnaw My Leg Off”

The engaged girl’s eyelids droop with black goo, a flat smile taped on her mouth. She leans against her boy and determinedly suppresses her building scream of frustration as well-meaning women’s words entrap her in a room of polite, civilized people.

Conclusion: The only thing worse than a wedding shower is planning one.


Concentrating Is Hard Today

So, is the new Gravatar a little too intimidating? I’m almost embarrassed when my family walks in on me scrutinizing my blog design (while avoiding my own salacious gaze). Really, people, if it’s too much, send up a flare. I’d hate to have you avoid this site because you’re ashamed to see me cyber flirting with the readers.

Writing has been hard lately. Dunno why. I think when school starts in the next few weeks I’ll get my writing gears in motion again. Maybe I’ll post some of my essays or something—bring this blog back from the subpar poetry limbo it has inhabited for too too long.

La la la!

Concentrating is hard today.

I have a cold right now, BTDubs. Coughing, sniffling, moaning, etc. Sleeping is no fun because it takes so long to happen, so I avoid it when possible. As a result, I’m just constantly tired.

Stuff is happening. I’m reconnecting a little with old friends. School is starting soon. I’m decluttering the papers I’ve been holding onto for years. It’s quite a project. Certificates, doodles, writing, report cards, school notes, art, letters, receipts—it seems to go on forever.

Anyway, y’all. Don’t postpone your life waiting for this blog to become especially amazing. I am doing well, really. I hope your lives are rocking. And I hope to see you more often in the near future.

P.S. I really like this song. My cute baby sister recommended it to me. Watch the video. Listen to the music. Smile. Breathe. Dance.


Poetry Friday: Then and Now

Then and Now

I travel in my mind
from that memory—
foamy ocean wave creeping
up my toes, feet, ankles,
slow as a weary sigh,
as I blink my eyes
once, that blue landscape
of water and sky darkening
behind tired eyelids,
losing my surroundings as the
wave eases up to my calves,
and my eyes inch open again,
my body exhaling—
to this one, this flurry of movement,
of feet splashing in smooth,
sandy rolls of seascape,
a laugh in my mouth
and my arms stretched out,
sprinting after a dream
that today, I suppose,
my heart is not too burdened
to entertain.

I breathe in salt air
in normal amounts of seconds,
and know I am free.

Poetry Friday: Cutting Strings

I wrote a piece called Cutting Strings in April 2014; this is the poem version of it.

Cutting Strings

A bouquet of balloons
strains against its bonds,
dancing in the breeze with
its anchor of ground.

I imagine releasing them
with scissors,
one, two, three, more,
watching them fly into
the never-never blue,
and they shrink into nothingness,
into stars.

The balloons are pieces of me,
pieces that long to be free.
With each snip I can easily
that life is beautiful,
and close my eyes to my pain.

One day I find a real bouquet,
and they float peacefully above
his grave, many popped,
and all of them tangled together
like the yarn ball in my heart.

So I catch a shard of glass from
a broken vase—cruel windstorm
—and I slash at the ribbons,
cutting away the fallen balloons
and untangling the live ones.

They spring up like soldiers
guarding his grave,
secured by their strings.

I hold the scraps of ribbon
in my hands and weep.
Those strings were better
to cut.
Not life strings, but weight strings.
Burden strings.

Balloons tied to ground say
that if your heart beats,
God wants you here.
Cut away your burdens,
but not your life.

A bouquet of balloons
strains against its bonds,
dancing in the breeze with
its anchor of ground.

I watch them,
my body in warm grass,
one, two, three, more
minutes spent enjoying
the never-never blue,
which will melt into nothingness,
into stars.

Puzzling to Peace

*trigger warning*

(I should probably go back and add that warning to like half my posts…)

Maney is a puzzle that I’m trying to piece together. It’s like I am separate from Maney, and I need to get her back in gear to live and hopefully someday desire life.

One thing I like to do is read. I recently received a plethora of my favorite books, used and cheap, the way I like my literature. So far I’ve consumed Peter and the Starcatchers, and I’m inching my way through Life of Pi (a favorite) and I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t): Making the Journey from “What Will People Think?” to “I Am Enough” by Brené Brown, which is new to me. Books are like friends–safe ones I don’t have to worry about thinking that I’m mental, since our entire relationship is mental. Who says money can’t buy happiness? If money can buy friends, then I wonder what it can’t buy.

Another thing I do to piece myself back together is play guitar. It became a hobby over this last semester, as I’ve explained before. I’m not the best at playing or singing, but I love it. I love hearing my voice intertwine with the strong, reverberating chords, or the gentle, rhythmic pluck of my fingers. I love finding songs on the internet and then playing them within a few minutes. It makes me feel beautiful. It makes me feel desirable. It makes me feel worthy of love.

The final and hardest thing I’ve been trying lately is talking to people. It’s almost daily that I want to run my wrists over shards of glass, or cover my ears and scream in a corner, or bash my head against something until the stupidity of life ends. I often long for the peace I associate with death. Peace, and reunion, mostly with Jesus Christ, because it’s hard to imagine that meeting being anything but wonderful.

But anyway, talking to people. It’s hard. I get distracted. I start to feel guilty for things I don’t have any right to feel guilty for. And the guilt usually morphs into shame–I ask myself why I even exist if I’m so pathetic and depressed and awkward. It’s exhausting. It makes me want to go to sleep and never care about anyone or anything again. (I’m doing better, though, because at least I can separate these feelings from other, happier ones. Better than moving from bad feelings to numbness.)

Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, this being alive thing. It’s so hard. It’s His love that keeps me going. He gives me a flicker of hope to move forward, to take another step, to hold on a little longer. So, Team, hold on, if only because I am holding on. If only because He loves you, and He wants you to have joy.