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To you - whether you may or may not see this is beyond me.
Do you know you're being thanked? Probably not. But you are - YOU are the best friend I've ever had. And your words put the threat of tears to my eyes.
You've done so much for me. Believe me? No? Doesn't matter. I'll make sure you do eventually. You're my perfect best friend - whatever I can do for you, I will. Thank you for humoring me - for accepting the silly and playing along with it.
For as long as I can remember, I've been a listener. I've heard things, in regards to family, that I never should have. Marital problems, financial struggles, stresses, anxieties...
I'm all for listening. I am. I like being there for people.
But I shouldn't know some of the things I do. I'm a daughter - a friend at points, sure, but also a daughter. Not a therapist. Not an adviser.
I'm 23 years old. I don't want to carry these burdens when I'm busy creating so many of my own.
As strange as it sounds, drawing can be like sex. There is an elegance and grace to the fingers you learn from sketching. You hold the pencil gently and trace it along the page - a whisper. Each touch means something - even the smallest; the lightest, is important.
You're creating something bigger; reaching toward something more exciting. Never are the small details overlooked nor a place forgotten. Pieces - you're creating pieces and bringing them together. Holding your breath then exhaling slowly.
The body becomes the canvas for these hands.
It is art.
Well, it's over. Yesterday, I mean.
It's officially been a year since K and I broke up. I'm not hurting - don't you worry. Reflective? Sure, but I always am. It's a shame that we're not friends but realistically, that was my decision. And I'm sticking to it. Though, it's still sad.
For some reason, it feels like it's been longer then a year. I'm not sure why. Sometimes it doesn't feel like it actually happened - but it's good it did.
It's just a shame, that's all. I dunno.
There's a little bird hopping near me. He looks like the pit of an avocado. Part of me wants to hold out my hand and let him hop into my palm. He's a curious little thing - looking this way and that, chirping occasionally as he jumps around.
He flies in and out of the covered area I'm in. It makes me smile for some reason. Maybe I'll pretend that he wants to come say hello but he's far too shy.
Don't be afraid, little guy. You can sit with me, it's alright.
I'm going back to Halloween. I sat outside this year - didn't mean or want to but I did anyway. I look forward to being able to take my own child around the neighborhood - it seems fun.
The kids were crazy polite this year which was nice. I was called 'ma'am,' which amused me to no end. One little boy was beyond tickled when I recognized his costume as Doctor Who. They were all great.
It was a drunk adult who sort of spoiled things. He almost started a fight.
It was something.
She paints in the clear tones of wet tears and soft cries. She sketches in brief thoughts and spontaneous actions. She shades in fiery feelings; colors conflicting emotions.
She doodles in delights and dabbles in desires. She inks in infatuations and pencils in pains. She mixes liquid memories and layers in laughter.
The tools are at her fingertips - sometimes they are her fingertips. Each breath is a brush and each sigh a stroke. Inhale life. Exhale graphite.
The sun rises as a blank canvas and sets as another work of art.
Beliefs are a funny thing. I don't talk about them often - I prefer to listen to others and learn. I do have beliefs, though.
Yet, I never talk about them. It's as if they're personal - and in some ways, they are. A personal relationship between myself and these beliefs that make the world seem...big. Yet...small? Meaningful, despite this inconsistency.
I believe what I believe - and I know what that is. And it makes my life better; gives me a sense of comfort.
I don't need to talk.
My college mentality is different than some around me. I recognize that. Experience is a cruel teacher. It's made me academic and prepared. I judge none who think differently, of course.
But I have memories they don't. I remember sitting on my bed and staring at the letter. "Dear, Miss E., we're sorry to inform you that you have been suspended..." etc, etc, etc.
I remember thinking now I had tangible proof of what a screw up I was. I was ashamed. Terrified. Most students lack those particular memories.
My relatives are here - my grandfather and his wife (who to this day, I still don't know what to call and simply use her first name). They're nice - quirky in their own ways but I enjoy having them around.
I do feel a bit guilty. We're independent people who enjoy our alone time. Entertaining guests has never been something natural to my family. I mean, I'm content to sit in my room and write or read.
Making small talk for hours upon hours? For a week? I'm not really good at it.
Geesh this cold came on suddenly. Almost alarmingly so. And of course it had to happen with my relatives here. On one hand, I get the alone time I crave since all I want to do is sleep and I tire quickly. On the other hand, socializing is hard.
It's even harder since I can hardly speak - my throat feels like it has a sunburn.
I hate matters of health. I'm no hypochondriac but I do get anxious when I get sick. Always think the worst.
Now I need soup.
I want a glass of wine. Maybe two.
It creeps; this feeling. It creeps on its stomach on the ground and crawls desperately up my leg. Latches onto my chest and digs fingers into my lungs. Each breath says, "Hey, remember me? Remember me? No? I'll remind you."
One of the hardest aspects of my journey was the allowance and reintroduction of feelings. I was afraid to get angry. Be sad. Be happy. Be...anything.
A taste of the creep could silence every bit of that.
I hate anxiety. I really do.
I notice everything. Subtle facial movements. Changes in tone. Energy. Reflection. Different paths. Different word choices.
One of the reasons I like routines so much is because I've figured out what they mean. While I recognize change isn't a bad thing, it can spike my anxiety. What does it mean? What did I do? Is something ruined forever? I've messed up. I've messed up.
No, I haven't. But anxiety quickens my heart and tells me I have.
It's so cold but I'm still outside. Why? It helps with the bug I've caught. Well, not so much the cold, but the fresh air. I've been sitting here since 7:30 - had two cups of coffee and used the mug to keep my hands warm.
I do like the campus like this, though. Gray, rainy, cold - actually, I like any place when it looks like this. It forces you to get warm and become comfortable; something about that makes it...homey.
That doesn't make sense. I'm a bit confused, too.
I played one of my favorite video games today. It's been forever since I've sat down and played something by myself. Sat in silence. Focused. Enjoyed it without guidelines or a time limit.
It was nice. Relaxing. In some ways, it made me enjoy the game more so than I had previously.
And it IS a good game - flawed, certainly, but a time well spent. And like always, I've decided that I've played it all wrong and will soon create a new profile.
But I'll enjoy it all the same.
I...am...healthy! Well, sort of, anyway. My illness had been reduced to a head cold. Stuffy nose, bit of coughing - this is nothing compared to yesterday. I'll take a stuffy nose over a swollen, sore throat any day.
Most of the time, I don't mind being sick. You get to stay in your pajamas without question and eat whatever you want because of reasons. But I do so much that involves my voice - losing it was awful.
Yet, people are awesome so participating wasn't that hard. I was still included.
I like to think about the then and the now. Doing so makes me realize how drastically different things are. It's...amazing.
I don't regret the past but I'm not proud of it. I don't think of it fondly but I peel the lessons away carefully - they are fragile. Sometimes, when I speak with people, I remember how they don't know about my past.
So much happened. There was so much intensity and they have no idea it existed. But it did. And I'm glad for it.
It's something I often think about.
He stepped slowly - but not because it was his choice. It was his nature; he could move no other way. His feet trudged through the dirt keeping the same pace they always had. Every detail of the world passed him leisurely and there was no concept of time. He moved, he went - slowly.
The hare, however, had the choice. He chose to move quickly - to flit from place to place, tire, rest, and continue. He set his own pace from the start and could change it at any second.
Which is better?
I took the best nap earlier today.
Since I don't live on campus, I nap in the car between classes. The extra rest helps out a lot and I savor every minute. However, the cold weather has made these little naps dreadful.
But today, I brought a blanket and wrapped myself up, going as far as to cover my head. I was so warm and cozy - sleep came easy and I wanted to keep dozing by the time my class came round.
It was lovely, though. I feel rested which is always nice.
Sometimes I feel crazy. I close my eyes and I can see all the places I'd like to be.
I can see the home I want to grow old in. I can feel the fabric of pajamas against my skin. I can breathe the cold air.
I can feel the load of my work on my shoulders and the responsibility of a family. Each exhale feels deep and each inhale makes me dizzy.
All I have to do is figure out how to get from where I am now and into these images.
It's Friday! And now there's a week of nothing ahead of me. That feels good. Relaxing even though it hasn't even started. I'm going to sleep in, do nothing, and play the video game I've been wanting to play.
It's going to be fantastic, basically.
'Course, I should do work but I know myself. It won't get done - not with so much time between now and the due date. Ah well! It's time for sleeps, coffee, and gaming. It's time for a rest and to get my aching back fixed.
I don't vent easily. I share the personal matters of my life with very few people. It's not because I don't trust but...
These things. They were the life-changing moments that defined who I turned out to be; who I'm still becoming. When I vent, I hand them over as if they're glass in my palms. "Be careful," I want to whisper (whisper - they're that fragile), "keep this safe,"
I guard my memories.
It's hard to let another person protect them, too. It's hard to know they'll understand them.
But of course, when I do vent, I struggle immensely. I have an image in my head of how I want to appear to people.
Happy. Capable. Strong. All those wonderful adjectives people like to fancy themselves with.
I hate changing that image. Even when I'm done venting, I clam up and begin to analyze whether doing so was wise or not. Maybe I said something wrong - maybe too much.
Maybe I'm being selfish. Maybe I should stop talking. Maybe I'm wasting their time.
I think too much.
The bits and pieces of it all resembled something of a puzzle,
intricately woven yet shoved into place.
They clamored and questioned, wondered and pondered,
yet found no answer for the spotted curve.
Perhaps, a blank canvas ready for streaks of color to stain it,
the wet oil a blemish by nature.
Arms stretched out and fingers extended to reach the shore,
swimming and drowning do look familiar.
They dance on the tiled floor made of those puzzle pieces,
with walls running damp with colors,
and wonder how they breathe.
It's tense here. That's the best way to describe it. When I inhale, I can feel the thickness of the atmosphere settle in my throat.
And it sucks, to be frank. I can't stand unspoken unhappiness. It reeks of passive aggressiveness and discontent. "Speak up!" I want to say, "Find an answer!"
But I don't. I never do. I don't know why. Maybe it's not my place, who knows?
I stayed in bed too late today but I don't even mind. Sometimes this house makes me very tired.
It's Thanksgiving. My dad made dinner - the entire dinner. I asked if he wanted any help but he declined the offer. He's very particular about food; he likes it a certain way. My mother was more than happy to hand over the responsibilities of the holiday to him - as long as the dishes were cleaned.
Surprisingly, they were.
The food was good, the conversations nice, and I just...
I wish certain things were different. People were happier. It's a shame. You notice these things around the holidays, I suppose. Ah.
People think too much. I'm the biggest hypocrite in writing that but they do. I don't believe in putting on airs, though. Ask me a question and I'll answer it. A struggle may occur, sure, but I'll answer.
I hate words with double meanings or phrases that could mean this or that. I say what I mean when I say it and if I suddenly decide I don't, then I mention the change. Life is less confusing; less dramatic and frustrating.
I hate the idea of people getting confused over what I say.
I don't talk about religion very much. Or rather, I don't speak of it - I enjoy hearing about it. I chalk it up to one of those things where I know how I feel and I've never felt the need to enthuse about this feeling to the world. I know and I enjoy it - that seems like enough.
Sometimes, however, I wish I didn't feel the need to hide. I only do so because I hate explaining myself - especially when said explanations become defenses.
I guess the important thing is I'm happy with it.
I had the dream again. The dream. The one with reoccurring parts - the only reoccurring dream I've had for the longest time.
It's the kind of dream that makes you pull your pillow close and breathe in the scent of sleep; warm and lazy. It's the kind of dream that makes sheets feel softer beneath your fingers as you spread them out. It's the kind of dream that makes a sigh slip like a wave as the morning begins to settle in with every exhale.
It's the kind of dream you wish was reality.
It bothers me; my weakness and struggles. Reminders of things I went through in the past.
I am not the most pleasant person to myself. I should be better and try harder. I should be kinder. I should be the type of person I can be proud of and yet...I look back and see this chain I tied to my ankle.
My heart is heavy. I'm not a pessimist, I promise - nor am I always so hard on myself. I just know what I'm capable of - the good and the bad.
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