Mine

overly expressive, overly expectant

I want to pick those words out of your brain and put them back in mine because they were never meant to be yours to hold and neither was I

neither was I, neither did I know what I was doing,

what was I doing but you were doing it too wishful thinking longing sighs daydreams in our minds 

daydreams in our minds but we've long awoken

I don't remember what I said. But I remember how it felt to be met with silence. Overly expressive, overly expectant. I the want to pick those words out of your brain and put them back in mine because they were never meant to be yours to hold and neither was I.  

honey

i.
honey -
on the tip of my tongue it lingers
honey -
how was your day?

I want to wrap you up and around between my arms with my legs squeezing you tight hoping to make you feel the warmth that's swelling from my chest and I want to call you
honey

ii.
honey -
but we're not quite there
honey -
so I bite it back

Speaking to me softly thoughts swirling around this way and that wondering do you don't you will you won't you but I won't let myself linger because I could get stuck in your words of
honey

iii.
I think that you could love me so sweetly
like honey
but I'm scared to ask you to try

A Series of Non Sequiturial Thoughts: pt. II

There have been so many things that I've been wanting to, needing to, write about, but I just haven't quite been able to do it, and everything is now bubbling, bubbling under the surface and slowly leaking in and out of my mind and I can't stop dwelling on so many different thoughts and feelings and so here it now leads to another series of non sequiturial thoughts.

I'm so torn about who I am and what I believe and how I feel; there are so many contradictions and inconsistencies and paradoxes swirling inside of me, I can't make sense of anything. I am so confident yet so insecure at the same time, I feel so worthy and worthless in the same breath, I feel so hopeful and hopeless all at once, I'm running out of breath just running around in my own head.

I'm still wondering if non sequiturial is even a word and finding it strange that we can convince ourselves that a word is a word by repeating it over and over again until the very idea of it not being a word becomes absurd, just as it is the same with all of the other delusions in our lives that we convince ourselves are reality -- repetition remains key, to perfection and likewise to destruction.

I went a little delirious last weekend and I'm glad that I have a fever to blame it on because I look back at that broken, crying mess and think, "Who is that?" I don't recognize that girl who laid in bed crying over a disillusioned view of a boy, but I guess that was me and I guess I have to come to terms with it sooner or later.

Coming back to work was rough after a week and half of time off but I unknowingly gave myself an attitude check and came to the realization that there was much too much pride in my mind and I thought, "Wow, I need to really humble myself right now." And I did and instantly - my day was turned around and I've spent the past three days in the best mental mindset that I've experienced at work in the past six months.

I'm still just trying to be a good person and I just want someone as good as you to see something good in me, but I won't let you turn loving me into your own personal martyrdom.

I keep feeling like I'm drowning, momentarily, here and there, but I'm able to come up for air just enough to not drift away, but it's so exhausting that I just want to feel like I have someone on my team, something looking after me and leading me along.

I can't even imagine what this coming year will bring but I'm doing my best, I'm doing my very best to be my very best and so I'm keeping my eyes and my heart open wide and I just hope that you'll be with me, alongside me to talk me through it and maybe we can go through it together and maybe, maybe I'll soon be able to stop rambling and just -- breathe.

Sleep

I either lose sleep
for you
or
because of you.

- Kayla Hollatz, "Slumber"

You

I want to spill all my secrets to you. I want to tell you all the things I've never told a soul. I want to tell you everything I'm feeling, everything I'm scared of, everything I'm thinking of in this moment. I want to stay in bed with you and exchange stupid jokes and life lessons in the same breath. I want you to pry into my heart and my soul, I want you to be there, I want you to ask all the things that no one's asked me before, and I want you take me for what I am and what I'm not.

Love Surrounds

I think I'm finally realizing how much love surrounds me. In my grandmother's tearful prayers, I see love. In my friends' telephone conversations as I commute home from work, I see love. In my brother's ever-ready loans, I see love. In my dog's eager, ever-playful eyes, I see love. In my former manager's comments, I see love. In my solitude, when a text of well-wishing comes to the screen, I see love. In my mother's calls, no matter how many times I ignore them, I see love. In my best friend's understanding gaze, I see love.

I am just now realizing how much love surrounds me. And I am so, so grateful.

I hope that I can express my gratitude, sooner or later.

The Art of Racing in the Rain

After spending the afternoon in Seattle, drinking coffee and sending emails, meandering through Pike Place Market, I stopped by Half Price Books in Tukwila on the way home. I don’t remember the last time I recreationally read, and especially finished, a novel (though many valiant attempts were made, but the starting proved to be much easier than the finishing), so I browsed the aisles aimlessly, just waiting for something to catch my eye.

En Entendant Godot crossed my path, a French version of the beloved Garfield, both securing a place in my hands, but I kept on. And then, from the corner of my eye, the top of a dog’s head peeked out. The Art of Racing in the Rain. By the title, I would never give it a second glance, but why the dog on the cover? My curiosity piqued, I opened the front flap.

“Enzo knows he is different from other dogs: a philosopher with a nearly human soul (and an obsession with opposable thumbs), he has educated himself by watching television extensively, and by listening very closely to the words of his master, Denny Swift, an up-and-coming race car driver.”

A novel told from the perspective of a dog. I needed nothing else. (Not to mention it was a mere $2.00 – a steal!)

The Art of Racing in the Rain is the most heart-wrenching, tear-jerking, dog-loving book that I have ever read. The tears began on page 4 and the flood gates were released by page 317. The novel begins with Enzo, our narrating canine, knowing that he is about to die – and wanting to. The following chapters are written in retrospect, following the lives of Denny and his family, but through Enzo’s eyes. 

Now, for those of you that are heartless dog-detesters, this novel is not for you. You simply wouldn’t understand. But for any and all dog-lovers, this is a must read. It will make you appreciate your canine companion so much more and will provide you with a warm, soul-cleansing cry.

The Art of Racing in the Rain. Two paws up.

Now excuse me while I mull over pictures of my Ellie and wallow in my melancholy.

Wait

Graduation is in two weeks: at last! No more papers, no more readings, no more tests, no more -- wait. No more...friends. No more co-workers, no more roommates, no more of those who have shaped and molded my life and my mind and my very being for the past one two three four years -- no more. Wait. No more. No, I'm not ready for no more. Wait.

Conceal to Reveal

With all the talk going around about "real beauty," not only are extravagant uses of Photoshop critiqued, but often times, any use of makeup is tossed into the mix. People are often telling women, "You don't need make-up to be beautiful; you're perfect the way you are!" and others saying they like the "natural" look. But in the same breath, they often tell their female peers that they look sick or tired when they fail to wear mascara or eyeliner.

Everyone has a preconceived notion of what others are supposed to look like. Critiques of the above are many, but those are for another time, another day. Today, I am making a case for the positive aspect of using makeup and giving into these preconceived notions.

I have been wearing make up for years. And the reason behind it is perfectly summarized with Dermablend's Camo Confessions campaign. You can view the most recent videos here.

I do not put on make-up every day to fake who I am, to "trick" anyone, or put on a false persona. On the contrary, I do it so that people can instead see who I really am -- the sarcastic, witty, emotional, loyal, indecisive person that I am. Because if I didn't, they would instead focus on my physical appearance. The preconceived notion that I am ascribing to is looking normal.

Perfect skin is not something that I have been blessed with. I'm not talking about acne or pimples; I have instead been beautified with a continuous, crimson complexion. And I do not want that to be the first thing that people see and judge me by. I want people to look past my skin and instead judge me by the content of my character, however charming or repellent it may be. And that is why I conceal to reveal. I wear my makeup, and I wear it proudly, because it helps me be who I want to be -- my face is a canvas, one where I can show the rest of the world how I see myself, how I hope that it can see me. And for that, I will not be ashamed.

Overly

Overly expressive, overly expectant.

Never have I felt so pathetic.

Summer of Introspection

It seems that the general theme of this generation is feeling lost. Nobody knows what they are doing, or where they are going, or who they are. And there is nothing wrong with that. We're in our 20s and life just isn't as much of a straight shot as it was for our parents and we have endless possibilities, so many paths at our feet, but I guess this is where it becomes difficult. It's such a blessing, to have so many options, but it easily becomes a rut that we fall in to.We don't know what to choose or what to do so we do nothing and just go about our daily lives. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. But personally, I'm getting sick of this rut.

I'm getting tired and fed up with myself for being at a standstill and not moving forward. I don't mean this in a sense that I should be more out in the world and doing some spectacular things, as I'm not even done with school yet, but that doesn't mean that I can't be making progress in other aspects of my life. I have been going through the motions for so long that I'm not quite sure what more there is to me.

My goal this summer is to spend intentional time looking into my mind and seeing what I find. I want to reassess my values, goals, and beliefs. It's been quite some time since I've thought about any of those things and I think it's time to start molding myself. I'm not expecting any tremendous epiphanies, I just hope I can catch a glimpse of who I am and I what I hope for out of life.

And I know that I just always need to remind myself that feeling lost does not necessarily mean being lost.

22 February - Blurbs

I don't know where I am.

I'm taking risks, saying things I'd never say with a sober mind.

I haven't spoken to you in weeks, but know that I love you -- always.

I equally want you to remember me as much as I want you to forget me, as much as I want to forget and to remember you.

I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am.

Find me. Forget me. Lose me.

Will You Still Love Me On Sunday?

It’s so easy to be head-over-heels under the loud music and the overfull glasses of Saturday night. Everyone loves each other, everyone wants to be best friends. Everyone sees only the best in everyone else. And there is a certain magic in Saturday night, as though you’re so far inside the weekend — so buffered on each side from the unforgiving reality of the weekdays — that everything is possible and real if you want it to be. You say things you might not mean on Monday morning, because for the moment in between the sixth and seventh drink on Saturday, it’s all you can think about.

------

But when you wake up on Sunday morning, when your head hurts so badly you feel as though it will never return to normal, when everything that was beautiful and mysterious the night before has been rendered harsh and unflattering in the relentless daylight — will you still want to turn over to me? Will you still be interested in all of the things I have to say, all of the coincidences we took as divine intervention last night when we were only so happy to tell each other how we feel? If the facilitators of alcohol and dim lights and a group of laughing around us are no longer part of the equation, do you still want to hold my hand?

------

I will love you on Sunday. If I told you all of these beautiful things when we were standing under the red light of the bar, peeling the label off a beer bottle, it’s because I want you to remember them the next day. I want to pounce on my momentary lack of inhibitions to say all of the things I’ll later want to sweep under the rug, but which I truly mean. I am telling you these things on Saturday because I won’t be able to on Sunday, but I’ll want you to know that I mean them. And I hope you know me well enough to know that I never say anything I don’t mean — even if they’re a bit embarrassing to remember in the morning.

Will You Still Love Me On Sunday? | Thought Catalog

Deserving

You ask me how I'm doing and I say everything is fine and it is - nothing, nothing is wrong - and yet I keep finding it difficult to breathe. So filled with a gnawing desire for solitude, self-loathing, and gloom, reasons for which cannot be found but the feelings existing nonetheless. Existing  and stifling and ever present. You look at me with eyes filled with love but when I see them all I want is to turn away and push you further because I could never feel deserving. I see in myself no redemption for I am neither considerate nor sympathetic nor benevolent, and yet you stay patient and supportive and kind. You, you who have been with me for near a decade and you, you who have been by my side for not even a year; you, the collective you who have been intertwined with me for whatever reason, for whatever duration, you, I don't deserve you.

A Series of Non Sequiturial Thoughts

I feel as if I am stuck. Stuck in this strange place, this strange life where I simply go through the motions and time passes quickly by, day by day. I am not happy but neither am I sad; I am nothing. And the mundaneness of my routine only fuels this nothingness even more. This place evokes no response because it is no longer strange; it has become too familiar and we all know how well I do with familiarity.

I am so tired. Always, so tired. I have too much on my plate, but I can't give any of it up. And I would never want to. Being busy is something that I am always, even subconsciously, trying to be because I don't want to stop and see how drab my quotidienne life has become but this then becomes the routine and it is a perpetual cycle.

I miss witnessing the falling snow and being mesmerized by its beauty and calmed by its frost. I miss stepping in the foot tracks that were made by the one walking before me and how comforting it felt.

I wonder if non sequiturial is even a word. Isn't it strange, how we can convince ourselves that a word is a word by repeating it over and over to ourselves until the idea of it not being a word becomes absurd. Although, it is the same with all of the other delusions in our lives that we convince ourselves are reality, isn't it. Repetition is key. To perfection and likewise to destruction.

I have an insatiable desire for solitude, no matter how abundant the love is around me. Some nights I sit out on my roof and watch as the planes fly by and away and am filled with longing to be on one of them, going, going running flying leaving venturing to someplace new because I am never satisfied with where I am in the present. I am not satisfied nor content with where I am or what I am or what I have but neither do I know exactly what I want because I know nothing.

I seem to have developed an inability to speak when it matters most. My mind is filled with words that would appease and put at ease not only those around me but also my own scattered mind, but these words never make it out. They get caught in my throat and tie up my tongue and I am left with nothing to offer but a silence that only keeps us both guessing.

I don't allow myself to sleep, or rather, there is something that is keeping me from much needed, much desired, slumber. I find myself, night in and night out, staying awake long after I have gone to bed, and not for any particular reason. I find things to distract myself from my aching head and my heavy eyelids and my tired heart because I can't, I just can't let myself fall asleep. And I don't know why or at least I don't want to admit why so for now I'll keep my distractions at hand.

I Want to Inspire You

I want to inspire you. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I want to be your muse, I just want to stir something in you. I want you to feel passion, to feel energy roaming through you, pushing you towards something. I want to be the cause behind a poem, a story, an act, a dream. It doesn't have to be grand, it doesn't have to be all that memorable. It doesn't matter whether our lives are intertwined for years or if they simply intersect for a moment, and then bounce off one another. It doesn't matter whether you love me or feel nothing but indifference towards me. It doesn't matter, the details don't matter. I just want to inspire you.

Brief Interviews With Indecisive People

“Why can’t I just tell him, hey, I’m going through a thing. Sorry if I’m being a crazy butthead right now?”

“You can’t just tell a guy that,” she says.

“Why not? Why am I supposed to just play this game where I act normal when I don’t feel normal? Why can’t I just be honest with him? Why don’t people do that? I feel like we’d all understand each other better if we did that.”

“You can’t just tell a guy you’re crazy.”

“….Fine. I won’t.”

------

“It’s so doomed,” I tell him about us (the new “us”) over dinner. “But it’s happening anyway.”

“Well.” He laughs. “You kind of just described life,” he says.

------

I cry a little bit to myself while standing on the subway platform waiting for the L to take me from Brooklyn to Manhattan. My phone doesn’t have service so I type in a bunch of text messages to you that I’ll never hit “send” on.

On the phone with you, I also cry. You don’t know I’m crying. I tell you about another time when I cried and you didn’t know, when we’d ended an email correspondence — an innocuous one —and I’d cried myself to sleep for no reason I can figure out.

Even when I’m happy with you, I want to cry.

Brief Interviews With Indecisive People | Thought Catalog

Panic

Lungs clenching, sight blurring, I walked and I walked, trying to steady my breathing, to regain some control. But Pandora's box had been opened, and all those nameless feelings and fears that had remained suppressed for so long were suddenly freed, let loose to form into conscious and coherent words and ideas. And once they're out, they can't be put back. They're swirling, swarming in my mind, choking me from the inside out; I'm finding it difficult to breathe. I need to catch my breath, to clear my head, but the weather is too warm, the night is too light, and I am no where near alone enough.

Deserving Love

"We accept the love we think we deserve." - Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

So what do we do if we do not believe we deserve it? Do we reject it? Run from it? Hide from it? Push it away? Or do we go along with it, hoping that one day we will wake up feeling worthy and in the mean time, pray to God that the one giving us their love doesn't give up.

Questions, questions, questions, and as always, so few answers.

Feeling Sentimental

I don't often get very sentimental, but my heart is simply filled with love right now. I do love this place, and I do love these people. And I do love that place, and I do love those people. I've realized that no matter where I go, I will always be missing something and someone else. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with leaving bits and pieces of my heart scattered about, because what good is a whole heart, not shared, kept to itself and alone?