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Dying is a falling tree. Dying is going to bed at night only to rise the next day. Dying is seeing the sun sinking down, and knowing it will never rise again. Dying is living a life of misery and loneliness. Dying is looking into a mirror and seeing hopeless eyes staring back at you. Dying is a razor across the delicate skin of a wrist. Dying is a rope around a neck. Dying is a gradual change, the force of gravity dragging us back to the earth where we will lie in dust, never to rise and live again.
The suitcase prompt reminds me of a one and a half page short story I wrote in my high school creative writing class. It was a pretty decent story, but back in eleventh grade, I couldnít really write that well. Most of my efforts were in vain. What I have in my suitcase are the things I need to live a simple life. I donít need a big wallet with tons of money and credit cards, I donít need a ton of makeup to look decent, I donít need all the latest fashions. I just need whatís in my soul.
I have had a loss. I lost one of my cousins to a foul murderer. Some would say my cousin asked for it, and I still donít understand the details of the murder to this day. She didnít ask for it. She was taken advantage of by a man, and there was nothing she could have done to prevent it except to quit her job at the strip club. I still donít understand why she worked there, or what pleasure she gained from it. She was too intelligent to sell her body, and that caused her to sell her life.
Tomorrow is going to be Saturday. I donít know what Iím going to do and I have only one thing written down; to edit the personal statement for one of my college applications, then send it off. I canít wait to get an answer for NC State and the other colleges I applied to! I canít wait to go somewhere in the fall and get a whole new experience. I am officially tired of living with my parents and only want a bit of freedom. I just donít know what Iím going to do about Jamie. I donít know anything.
There was a time where I thought I was a boy in a past life, specifically a boy with ADHD. I do not know why I thought that; I think it was because I sympathized more with boys than with girls. I think I may have been Eric Harris in the past, you know, the Columbine killer. Or maybe I was Joseph Goebbels; the German propagandist and master of the Big Lie. I hope I wasnít either of them; because in better times I imagine my past self to be someone who was sweet and kind, but always a boy.
One of my favorite beliefs is the knowledge that everyone and everything is interconnected. Our pasts, our presents and our futures are intertwined, no matter how subtly, to everything that has happened before. Everything is tied with history, as we will soon become a part of it when we die. My past life is connected to my future life in everything I do. That is why we must pay attention to the past, so we do not make the same mistakes in the future. I heard somewhere that the definition of insanity is doing the same things over and over.
There is unfinished business between me and a whole bunch of people: Heather, Justin, OB1, Cindy, Kevin, OR1, and many others. I leave a lot of wreckage behind in my relationships and I am not proud of it. Iím going back to using old code because I am pretty sure I have stalkers and this website wonít let me delete my page. But whatever. I donít really care. Iím displaying honesty on the Internet. There is unfinished business between me and the hospital, me and NC State, and me and JamieÖ at least for today. Iíll call him on break.
Pets bring a simple joy to our lives, but they also bring misery. My cat is a freaking demon. I come home from school, and the first thing he wants is to be fed. He has no regard for my emotions. He wakes me up every night, clawing at me and meowing loudly. He even purrs so loud I cannot fall asleep again. I know itís probably his way of showing affection, but I am getting annoyed by it. I cleaned his litter box, and he went in and used it right after I cleaned it! He is so ungrateful.
We lost Andy when he was sixteen. He was old for a dog, and had bad hind legs. His one eye was going blind, and all he did was lie around the house all day. He hardly even wagged his tail or came to greet us when we came home. My family voted on whether or not he should be put to sleep. I voted against it, and everyone else voted for it. Andy, although he was a loved pet, had become a nuisance. He could no longer hold the contents of his bladder. I miss my little dog Andy.
I am dying to let go. I need to let go of frustration, my insecurities, my doubts, and my struggles. Letting go means to clear your mind of all that worries you. You may be able to carry a certain amount of weight on your physical back, but you can carry much more on your mind, in your heart, and in your soul. Every so often you need to release all of that inner weight and think freely again. The best way to let go is to write your feelings down, or talk to a friend who knows you well.
You are such a bitch! You keep me out of your room when all I want is food and someone to play with. You donít clean my litter box until it is so full I donít want to use it. You donít feed me until I practically have to claw you to pieces. You pick me up and hold me at all the wrong times, and you took me to the vet. You took me to the vet, and I know something is missing, but I canít remember what it is. I feel violated.
Your cat, Gus (fictional)
One of my favorite memories of my father is before he got depressed. He was so loving, and really the best dad anyone could ever ask for. He used to make me feel that I was smart and capable of all the things in the world. I am glad I have a male role model like him, and someone to base my husband off of. I know that sounds weird, but girls will marry their fathers; if you have ever heard that saying. I am just glad that I was blessed with such a wonderful, loving father in my life.
I wrote a play about doorways, after reading a short story by Ernest Hemingway. The piece inspired me and I used that inspiration to create a three act play. All of the acts were very brief and minimalist, as was Hemingwayís style. I think I should become inspired by the masters more and more often. I want to. That is why I stopped reading YA books because I do not want to be inspired by cheap trashy writing. I am getting into reading the classics, so I can learn how a real writer works their magic over the printed page.
The last time I saw him, he looked at me the same way he always didÖ with those lovely cornflower blue eyes. He makes me want to drop everything and run to him, to be with him, but he is the Forbidden One. He may tempt me in no other way but a look, but I always love him. I havenít seen him now for over a year, and I donít think Iíll ever see him againÖ but I will always be waiting for him to return and make himself touchable to me. I lust after those lovely blue eyesÖ
I had a grief ritual for Vince when he passed away. I used to play the song ďSlipped AwayĒ by Avril Lavigne on the 27th of every month for a year. Vince was so funny and caring and smart. I remember when I used to laugh at his jokes on the bus, and when we would pass each other in the hall at school. Why does God only seem to take the ones who do not deserve to die? I wish I had appreciated Vince more, but when weíre at the age of sixteen, we think we can live forever.
I just found an awesome song by ETHS. I had never heard of the band before, but I had just watched a video on Youtube of my new theme song by Walls of Jericho. One person who commented left a list of death metal bands with female singers and ETHS was one of them. They fucking rock!! Any fan of WOJ, Otep, Arch Enemy, or Kittie needs to listen to them. I am going to recommend them to my boyfriend; he is into chicks screaming backed by loud, fast guitars. And this band is French, which makes it even better.
My story. Actually, me and Jamieís story. He wants to call it 13. Just the number. Itís a number significant to the story, but somehow I think it needs to be more significant. I like the simplicity of the possible title, but Iím at odds as to how Iím going to make more references to 13 in the story. Itís not really a story anymore. Itís like an epic; with thirteen parts and an epilogue. I call it Jamieís Ring Cycle and for a while we were calling it TNN. I guess the new official title is gonna be 13.
I have a Walls of Jericho song stuck in my head. Itís called ďA Trigger Full of PromisesĒ. The one line I like best is in the chorus and it goes, ďIf I load this gun will you hold it to your heartÖĒ It reminded me of what occurred today between me and Jamie. Nothing about guns, but it was about heart. I want to write something beautiful and dark like that song, but all my poetry inspiration has been drained for a long time. I donít know why. I hope one day Iíll get it back. I need it.
I really want to write another short story or a play, but I am afraid I donít have any time. I donít even have the time to revise things Iíve already written. Iím too busy with school, and my big epic story. The title is 13, but it may be changed. The story has thirteen parts, and the number thirteen is significant in other ways throughout the story. Or epic, rather. I feel like I have been too bragging and self-centered this week. I never consider the thoughts or opinions of anyone else. I hope this is just a phase.
ďI know what youíre like; youíre like my favorite underwearÖĒ Iíve had those lyrics stuck in my head for three days straight now, and I have no idea what to do about it. The song is ďFavoriteĒ by Liz Phair. Itís a pretty cute song about how she compares a guy to a pair of underwear. It reminds me of the one and only thong I have in my drawer; technically I have two but I never wear the other one. The songís happy and it makes you feel sexy, and if youíre a girl, it makes you feel girly.
Iím trying to type out my long story, Restless. I like it much better than Cain, but I really have to fix the ending. It ends so quickly and thereís no consistency in the story, because I donít remember much detail. Thatís why Iím so awful at settings and descriptions. Iíll start the paragraph with saying a character is wearing a black skirt, then further down the page Iíll write, ďShe brushed the crumbs off the legs of her blue jeans.Ē Nothing I write has any consistency and I know I have to pay better attention to those little details.
Just fucking write! Get off your lazy butt, quit making excuses, and just start writing! Donít worry if it turns out bad, or if you lose your train of thought! Just write the first thing that comes to mind and donít stop! Never give up, because even if you do end up with something thatís utter crap, you can always go back and revise. Donít lose your incentive to write. When you have a good story going, donít stop in the middle of it. Keep on writing, and never stop for more than a day! You might lose something good.
There are two types of guys: the guys you love but can never have, and the guys you can have but youíll never love. The former type are the bad boys, or the good looking ones, or ones who turn out to be gay. Or they may have girlfriends. The latter type are the guys who are ďbrotherĒ types, but they really like you. They may be shy, or they may not want to hurt your feelings. Give these guys a chance at a relationship with you. Youíll be presently surprised. Give up on the ones you can never have.
Passwords: theyíre so hard to remember, and so easy to forget. If youíre really uptight about security, you feel the need to have a different username and password for every website you go to. It gets freaking crazy after awhile. You canít really make a list of passwords; because someone will find it, and if you make such a list online, youíll need a password for that, too. If the world was full of honest people, there would be no need for passwords and the risk of stolen identities and information. Someday in the future passwords will be completely gone.
I am so tired lately. I know exactly why Iím tired, and itís because my boyfriend and I hardly ever get to see each other, so I have to stay up late and call him at 11:30 at night because thatís when he gets home from work. We stay up and talk until one sometimes, and I have to get up and go to school at six oíclock the next morning. Thatís barely five hours of sleep! Itís starting to get me really frustrated, but every night I get back up and do it again. Itís because I love him.
You wanna know what I hate? I hate when my boyfriend thinks he can flirt with all these floozies at his school, and when I tell him a guy came up and merely talked to me, he gets jealous. He thinks what he does with those bitches at his school is not flirting. Yeah fucking right. Either Iím insanely jealous or he just doesnít know what he does. He even admitted at one time that he was a big flirt. Now he wants to take that back. I canít stand him. I really canít. I wish he would die sometimes.
Yesterday, I made this list of all the reasons why I should not get married to my boyfriend (or get married to anyone, period). If he saw the list, I know it would make him feel like shit. I canít help that. I am not ready to be married to anyone, and no one can force me into that situation, yet at the same time, I feel like it is coming closer and closer to me, and soon I will not be able to outrun it. I think I would rather remain a virgin forever than get married too young.
A Bridge Too Far
I cannot fathom the distance between here and now. It seems so ethereal, like a heat wave shimmering on the horizon, or a star you can see but not touch. There may be an invisible bridge, filled with invisible obstacles and trapdoors that we will someday have to cross; we are crossing this bridge each day. On this crossover, we make what we can of life, and pray that the distance is not as far as it seems. Maybe it will not seem far when we finally look back and see ourselves on the other side.
I wish I could be folded like a sheet of paper and placed into a drawer overnight. The only question is, who would unfold me and remove me from the drawer, then tickle me with words? Who would be there to caress me with their thoughts and burden me with their knowledge? Would I be that forgotten sheet of paper, sleeping eternally in a desk drawer? Would I be the unfinished product of somebodyís loss of inspiration? Maybe I would be crumpled up, or tossed aside, just a wasted piece of tree. Perhaps I would know death instead of fulfillment.
A Hero Emerges
From the wreckage of a forgotten land, the barren and formerly noble land of Jekuvia, a hero had emerged. His name was Vince, and he would be the one to create a new legacy. As the victor of the old fight, Vince was going to be honored beyond his wildest dreams. He tucked his sword into its scabbard and rode upon his white horse up to the castle, where fair maidens awaited him. Vince was not your typical warrior or even your typical king. He was merely a child of twelve years old, and he had won.
A Little More Than Friends
We were a little more than friends. The boy and I stood on that fragile line between Christian fellowship and romantic love. His true intentions were hard to find, even when liquid honesty spewed from his mouth. I could not trust him. For me, trust is a difficult venture, a path that may lead to many wrong turns as well as pitfalls. I would love to trust everyone I see, especially my Christian brothers and sisters, and this makes me wonder something about myself. Would I be able to trust in the real Jesus Christ?
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