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howling western winds roll through the midwest with nothing to stop them, whipping through the chicago city, making everything tremble in its path. snow drifts up, whirling around in circles, deposited in riffs along the shore, building up against doorways, trapping us in for the night.
thunder shakes the frozen midwest ground while lighting looms overhead, flashing, illuminating the wintry night sky. there's no one in sight, just silence in between this winter storm.
anyone who dares to journey outside is toppled with winds trying to break their spirits.
without a doubt, febuary is the cruelest month.
a wooden chair sitting on the middle of the stage, occupying a small space in an otherwise relatively empty bar.
breathing life into the darkness, a man with a thin frame mossies his way to the stage
scattering the motes, sending them to the corners of the room
where some drunk guests blankly blink at him staring at them from the middle of the stage, creaking that wooden chair.
a random cough from the left and right fill the room while the player sets up the stage,
and in a low bass that strikes the floor he bellows out.
White snow, piled high, glistening in the sun on a frigid day makes me feel like a little child again. And if Chicago wasn't so flat I would make a temporary sled and slide all of my problems away. Then, after being chilled to my bones, I would come home and have a nice cup of hot chocolate and watch a fire that I don't have.
Winters were so much more fun when I was a child. Now, as an adult, I feel almost cynical because I'm so hurried to go from point A to B.
frozen, flat ground, breathing miles underneath, slowly letting the ground on top shift inwards and outwards, but the snow constrains life unless you're willing to travel far enough down into the blackness of the dirt, where the worms roam free.
and on top we're all just walking around on the slippery ice waiting trying to catch up with the bus that we constantly miss, not being able to train ourselves to leave five minutes early.
the only hope, it seems, is that the sun stays up a little later each day.
one day, those southwestern winds will blow towards us.
in the dark night, lurking shadows can creep up behind you, engulfing all that is in their path into a black hole of nothingness.
sometimes, in the day, the internet, illuminated by a bright computer screen, can blind you.
and we can all listen to those around us, buying into all of their falsities and fantasies,
or we can choose to walk the lonely, beaten path, unsure of where we are headed, confused by our broken compass society gave us.
i think i'll take the first step on that old dirt road and wander 'till nobody really knows.
the wind whips around my face, tossing my hair back and forth, howling around my body, trying to push me back. the wind will not let me walk any further so i turn my back and start the other way, thinking that if i can trick the wind, i can make it home. but the wind knows and instantly switches directions, now blowing from the east, pushing me to the west.
when the wind finally calms, snow starts to fall gracefully from the sky. big fat flakes land on the frozen ground, sticking together, piling high.
life in the frozen winter withers away and every alive thing asks the same question: will spring ever come?
northern winds blow south, the eastern winds ride the jet stream landing on our lake, blowing cold water over our city.
and it snows heavily. flake by flake it snows until we are two feet trapped wearing snow shoes just to go to the store.
burrowing ourselves inside, there is no reason not to hibernate like the bears where we just slow ourselves way down.
the crazy thing, though, about this winter that is haunting: the robins never left.
Going back and reading an old short story, I couldn't help but notice that my writing abilities were dispiriting. I suppose it's good that I see how the story doesn't work and it's a good idea to recognize that I'm no Faulkner or Joyce.
I didn't stop there, either. I went back and read a critical analysis from Drexel and was appalled at my writing abilities even then! Now I feel insignificant; poor.
So the same dismal question looms over my head: am I worthy enough of graduate school?
My response will be futile.
i an awakening today: my parents have lost belief in me; or i was too innocent to understand, but it's affected my life.
i feel out of my body right now; a ghost looking at a wasteful life.
i'm one big mistake, and i can't seem to get my life on track. i write, but are not published, a 3.4 gpa, but not a 4.0.
i mean,who didn't want to go to college. i'm the girl who decided to go to community college, then drexel, then uic.
am i ever going to get on track?
the sun sets upon the concrete buildings that loom over the land
entrapping us in the center,
forcing us to look upon their great material as these towers cover us in darkness.
look up! the pigeons are perched at the very top,
who knew they could breathe so well so high up?
we try to walk around these buildings, but we end up walking around in circles for miles and miles.
in the shade, we see all of our fears that may and may not be real.
but if we saw the sun now, we'd see too much truth.
turning wishes into "i do's" takes a lot more than just wishing.
maybe all of us, each and every one of us, could stop lying, or pretending for just one moment and complete our wishes. i, for one, am going to try. and try i must. i'm not going to take no for an answer from my brain anymore.
each day i'm going to write 250 words in a word document, as well as write 100 words on here, and edit a piece that i want to turn in to my prof. starting now.
confused about my future, so i'm recking my brain trying to figure how i can salvage everything. i mean, do any of us actually know where we want to be in a year? much less five or ten? and if we do, are we lying to ourselves?
and maybe i'm the only one lying to myself.
i don't know what to call the state that i'm in and i hope to get out of it soon.
actually, i know what the state i am in is: depression. one big heavy dose of depression.
living in chicago, thinking of my future.
where am i headed? do i even know? i feel like i'm 18 all over again and kind of wish it would stop.
i think, though, that since i'm ready to leave college, i'll just postpone the real world and go to graduate school.
am i even worthy? what semi-respectable school would accept me?
maybe all of them, maybe none of them. am i ph.d. worthy? isn't that what i'll be working towards?
a masters isn't an end all be all in itself.
lately i've been writing one of these 100 worded entries and deleting everything half way through. see, my 100 words almost always end up sounding more like a complaining journal than something great and powerful that most of the fellow 100 worder goers seem to write.
but it always turns into a competition with me, doesn't it?
maybe it shouldn't matter what i read on the front page in terms of "better" and "worse", but rather that i am independent and also good in my own way.
because better obviously means more, and worse always means less.
a simple promise to myself: i'll apply to the field program to go to peru and dig up a bunch of 10,000 year old stuff.
if i make it in, i'll try to trek over to machu picchu, read pablo neruda's book of poetry on that very same mountain side.
i mean, i knew it was beautiful, but i didn't know how much.
i don't care if i have a job, have to take out money, or leave stuff behind.
i'm going whether the universe wants me to or not.
assuming i get accepted.
if i am a river always changing, then i flow in new ways.
if i am flowing in a new way, then i am good
i watch tv so i am wasting time
if i am wasting time, then i am wasting a human life.
i don't write all the time, i am lazy
either i am good or i am bad
P ⊃ Q
Q ⊃ R
T ≡ S
T ⊃ U
W ≡ V
W V Z
that logic above just doesn't make sense.
i can finally start to see how my talk doesn't make sense.
question: have i said anything in this 100 word blog to feel embarassed at later on? what about a simple one or two years from now?
answer: as of right now: no, probably not.
i wonder if other people on this website wonder whether or not their100 words sometime sound more like a journal personal journal entry or not.
in more precise words: i feel like i am ranting to a website, as i would a journal.
maybe when i'm older i'll say "aww" at my 23 year old self and smile with pride at how trivial my matters were.
I know that being angry doesn't help anyone, but man, I can't help but feel that I'm flat lining in every possible way. My last semester in school is about as uninteresting as talk radio. You think "yeah, yeah! This radio topic sounds awesome!" until you actually start listening to it.
HB internship isn't going the way I planned. They assign me to do projects where I spend hours on, and then they never even use my material.
I wish I could say I wrote a lot! But I don't. So it goes.
from now on when i allow myself to be really negative, i'll allow myself to feel positive.
part of my problem goes deeper than i thought: most of
the time when i feel positive and good, i immediately feel bad for feeling good afterwards.
does it stem from my childhood or adulthood?
is there something wrong with me? am i unable to be happy, then?
i pose these questions to sound childish, but to give comfort to others out there who read this, and ask themselves similar questions.
we are all never alone.
i've been plowing through february and i feel pretty good about that. even if i can't pull myself to write every day, at least i can allow myself the room, then, to complete a batch and not feel discouraged.
because i'm at least finishing a whole monthly batch and that's something to be proud about!
and at least i can finish three monthly batches in a row.
and these little guys can be anything they want to be.
a mini short story.
a little nugget of truth.
together, they are the whatever club.
The wonders of getting a job offer, finally, at the internship where I do nothing more than data entry.
When I did try to write a newsletter, I kept getting cryptic e-mails from my supervisor that said "word like this, copy and paste, make it pretty. thanks oodles."
I'm not too fond of my "internship". They seem like a sinking ship.
So the question: do I jump on board with a sinking ship because I really need a job, or do I try to work some place that I'll at least like and respect, and hopefully be able to climb the ranks.
Sometimes I wish 100words allowed comments.
Water drips down in a pattern over the late winter months. It coats the cement, the pavement, the rocks, making everything slick. And against my window I can hear it all, hear it embedded within me, echoing in my mind, reverberating through me all, little ripples in the pond that is me.
Weather is a curious thing. One minute the sun will shine, a warm wind will blow over me, and the next the clouds come rolling in, yet eventually parting.
So, if the dark clouds must part, then let them part gently.
my life ekg is flat lining. normally something where i can put most of my efforts and feel intellectually drained. usually it's class but my professors this semester, though, just keep cancelling class and lecturing about authors' biographies for an hour so it's hard for me to get into my work.
so i watch law and order svu because it's one of my guilty pleasures.
my paid part-time job is just hard to get into.
new goal: make writing my stimulant to intellectually drain me.
but then i feel like i'm just writing a diary.
a cursor sits, blinking steadily until someone comes along, pounding keys, forcing this little cursor to move along.
one word sits in the upper left corner, alone, waiting as the foundation to be completed and sit in a little hood of words.
one sentence suddenly becomes surrounded by two, or maybe three or four, until a paragraph is born.
all the while the creator is staring at this screen wondering what else should be created in these next seven minutes.
no, i can not create light, or mankind...but i can create a single breath with these words.
Three new plants for $10:
Banana plant - a primarily thick green leaf that turns a banana yellow when it sits in bright sun.
Money tree - a plant with braided trunks and foliage on the top.
Spider plant - a lighter green leaf that has white on the outer parts.
These little plants seem to make me happier. I'll find myself just staring at them in the morning, contemplating my day in a nice, natural way. I find it enjoyable to see how fast they grow, watch their new shapes, and see the wonder of new foliage emerge.
Waking up at nearly 8 on a Saturday morning is nearly unheard of for me. After trudging through my morning routine of coffee and smokes, S. and I hit the road for a job fair. Along the way, I ate at a sausage biscuit and shamrock shake at McDonalds. Both were good.
At the job fair: we walked inside, greeted by a rather awkward guy, filled out a sheet of paper, then sat down to an HR manager only to realize that this fair was for McHenry county only!
At least it's good experience.
I seem to save up these entries like lucky arcade tickets; I'm waiting to cash them in.
But I try, and that's the most I can say for a lot of things. My seminar professor told me I had the "spark", that I should write more. I'm a good narrator, he says. I have the gift.
I'll take that with a grain of salt, but I don't. I let it all go to my head; now I'm bloated.
I wanted that validation, but now I'm wishing he'd never said anything to begin with.
Didn't we just blow through February?
I feel like the older I become, the more that time escapes me. And also, the more I try to hold time.
The past converges with the present, and the future is always brought back to the present.
And does time ever really exist? Ah these existential questions that are so essential to our daily lives.
So how to count the days, the months and the years?
How to count anything at all, if it is always fleeting. And should I really invest in any of this?
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