Tag Archives: post a week

Home is the Sailor, Home from the Sea.

gravestone in a small Irish cemetery

Prologue: Home is the Sailor.

I’ve just spent a week in Ireland and I’ve been meaning to write/blog about my adventures on the green island since I got back. Yet, I’ve been busy with work and somehow, my mind’s also been occupied with other things and stories that want out. Today, I finally have some time (or rather: I’m simply taking some time) to write and maybe, I can find a way to get it all out – I’ll try to let all the stories out at once and hopefully, they will get along with one another and peacefully play together without kicking, screaming, pinching and without me sending them into a far corner of my mind to take a time-out or call in a writer-story conference.

Oh, the places you’ll go.

I’ve always suffered from a chronic disease: cabin fever. The prospect of traveling – anywhere, really – has always had a soothing effect on my usually uneasy self. I love plane rides, train rides, even bus rides and bike rides. Next to ocean shores and mountains, bus and train stations and also airports are probably among my favorite places in the world (at least whenever I get to go somewhere or meet someone – seeing someone off is probably one of my least favorite things in the world, but that’s a different story). When I checked in my – apparently impressively small – bag, I felt as calm as I hadn’t felt in a quite a while. Especially knowing that this feeling would probably last the entire week – because what’s there to see in Ireland? Exactly. Ocean shores and mountains. And sheep. Many, many sheep (Bah bah baaah – that’s “I love Ireland” in Sheep; yes, I’m fluent).

view from the top of the mountain we hiked up

Habits.

Like most people, I have many habits. I need my coffee in the morning, I buy more books than I could ever read and I prefer to fall asleep to music rather than plain, dark silence. None of these are too bad (in my opinion). Another habit of mine, though: I smoke. I’m not a chain-smoker, at least, but still. I’m a stress-smoker. And I have been smoking way too much in my opinion, all through August and September, because I was stressed. Which is not an excuse. I’d like to kick the habit. I’ve heard it’s easier to kick any habit when you change your general routine. I didn’t touch even one cigarette while being in Ireland nor did I feel like it – it seems almost blaspheme to inhale cigarette smoke while being surrounded by sea air all the time. That being said, I’m back home now and general routine’s been rearing its ugly head since I got off the plane – and my only solution so far has been to blow cigarette smoke right into its face. Is it my unrest or really just a bad habit I can’t get rid off? Or is it the same in the end?

Mountain Tops.

Few things feel better than standing on top of a mountain that you’ve just hiked up. Especially with the soft, leprechaun-green Irish grass beneath and the dark blue of the Atlantic ocean below your feet. Also, few things feel more awe-inspiring. One moment of negligent curiosity and you’re sleeping with the fish – or you find yourself inside one, meeting Pinocchio or Jonah, potentially. There are some rocks – the Skelligs – an hour-long boat ride from the Irish coast, we wanted to but in the end couldn’t climb up. Weather conditions made it too dangerous and thus impossible (let alone our personal condition after the boat ride – the sea was a bit rough that day; go figure the consequences). They are mostly famous because around 600, Christian monks built their monastery on top of the rocks. In fact, they built them from the rocks. I still cannot imagine how they managed to do that. How they defied nature like that. And how they defied it and yet somehow still respected it, worked with it really (instead of marching in and just destroying everything, like it seems to be in fashion these days – sorry the tiny environmentalist in me sometimes takes over, but it’s a funny and cute creature, I’m sure you’d like it. Kind of like the Lorax, just maybe not that fuzzy).

Lifeguards – in case a sailor is lost in the sea?

Epilogue: Home from the Sea.

I would have liked to stay longer (as always), but I’m back. And (as always), I feel more restless coming home than I do while traveling. Maybe I was a sailor in a former life (although then, I probably wouldn’t have become that seasick during the boat ride?). Home is the sailor, home from the sea – I found this quote on a gravestone in a small cemetery on a hill right next to the ocean. I really liked it and I took it home with me (okay, this is a metaphor but I also, literally, took a picture of it). Another option: maybe we’re all sailors and my chronic disease isn’t just chronic but also contagious and already wide-spread.

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Daisy Petals – I’m out (maybe).

daisy petal picking – yes, no, maybe? (photo by Sami Sarkis)

Live and Learn

People say that little children have to learn how to talk while they are still so little – if they don’t, they might never be able to learn it at all. They will grow from quiet little children to quiet not so little adults. All the sounds they could have made, the words they could said, the inspiring speeches they could have given, all will be lost in the nirvana of the million and one things people never said but should have.

Then again, people say a lot (maybe silence is really golden).

It’s over

Remember that one time: your mom got you this really pretty dress/cool shirt/insert whatever clothing item comes to mind. You thought it was great (because it was) and you wanted to wear it, all – the – time. But, of course, you weren’t allowed to. It was too pretty/cool/whatever. So you only wore it on special occasions (if you wore it at all) and then one day, on one of these special occasions (maybe Christmas, maybe some distant relative’s 75th birthday) you wanted to put it on – but it didn’t fit anymore. You’d grown out of it.

Then again, it might not have been so special if you would have worn it all the time (no, that’s bullsh**, it really was special, no matter what).

Live and Learn: it’s over

It’s never good to neglect something (a skill, an item, a person). Here’s what you’re going to get back: anger (if you’re lucky), or nothing at all (most likely). Something/someone only wants to play, be your friend, be with you – but you won’t let it and after a while it’s too much. It leaves you alone (it needs to let go) – play with yourself, stupid – screaming the f-word – I’m out.

It’s over.

It’s over.

Missed Chances

I’m rollercoasterred, i’m feverish, like August. I will only let you in if you have a golden ticket. Don’t ask me when or where to get it. I don’t know. And even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you because you know what? This is supposed to be special, it’s supposed to be a challenge and you have to deserve it. This is not unconditional, not from the start (not anymore) – Try it or play with yourself, stupid – fuck – I’m out.

Is it really over?

Live and Learn

What about trust?

Live and Learn: it’s over

Hope grows on clouds and if it wants to come down, it needs to rain. That’s its way to travel, it is a rule.

(Then again, that’s bullsh**, why doesn’t it just rain hope? Let it rain hope).

Chances

Generations and generations of girls (and guys who won’t admit it) have picked daisy petals and so am I. I’m not the one to break with traditions. I need something to hold on to when my inner voice and God aren’t responding. It’s not even spring, there aren’t any daisies anywhere. But it’s time for a break. It’s fall and the leaves are changing colors. I’m picking leaves off tree branches. I don’t know what else to do. I’m struggling to talk (silence isn’t golden, it simply shimmers when the light hits its surface on the right spot, just like tin foil or gum wrapper). Nothing fits anymore, everything that used to be so special sits in the trash (and needs to become less special, but that’s bullsh**, and I know it won’t). Play with yourself, stupid – fuck – I’m out (I’m not, maybe). What are the my chances?

The Discovery of Evil.

Something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately:

We all stood huddled in a corner of the kindergarten playground, so close I could feel my best friend’s breath on my shoulder and some girl I didn’t know was touching my hand with the back of hers.

It was recess time, but no one was running around or screaming or throwing up in the hallway from winning the unofficial lunch eating contest (two bowls of chili, a glass of chocolate milk and a bag of Cheetos in 12 minutes and 33 seconds, more or less, no one really knew how to read the clock yet).

Our teacher held up a poster showing different clothing items. Sort of like in the fashion catalogs my mom sometimes would look at. But not really. There were no smiles, in fact, no people at all, and the clothes didn’t look pretty and new, like anyone would want to wear them. They were dirty and crumpled and some of them even torn. No one knew what was going on.

Then, Mrs. Archer spoke.

“Do any of you recognize these clothes? Or maybe a shirt or a pair of pants? Anything?”

She was the only person I knew that could cut out the most complicated figures, steadily and neatly along the lines. That day, her hands were shaking.

Most of us shook our heads, still confused. One girl said she’d seen the shirt before, but in a different color. Mrs. Archer smiled and told her she needed to know about clothes that were exactly the same. After that, no one said a word and a couple of minutes later, we were shuffled back into our classrooms.

When me and my best friend were picked up later in the afternoon, we overheard our moms’ conversation (pretending not to pay attention to what they were saying while, in fact, concentrating on each and every little sound that left their mouths – because it seemed important):

“It’s a terrible thing, I don’t know what to say.”

“I know. You never think these things hit so close to home. The poor girl. And what her parents must feel like…”

“I don’t even wanna think about it…wrapped up in all these clothes…and then thrown out the window…who would do something like that?”

They fell silent after that. My best friend’s mom nervously rummaged about in her purse until my mom handed her a tissue. They hugged, then they reached for us. My mom held my hand the entire walk home (so, so tight) – the last time she’d done that was on my first day of kindergarten, about a year ago.

I still wasn’t quite sure what all this was about but I was sure of one thing: something wasn’t quite right. In fact, something had to be awfully wrong. I had this weird feeling in my stomach, all tingly, kind of like when you’re spinning around and around in a carousel. But in a bad way, more like a ghost train that goes around in circles and never stops.

I was scared.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time I was scared. I had been scared before – scared of monsters hiding in the dark (hiding under my bed, of course), scared of the older kindergarten kids (and what they might do to a munchkin lie me), scared of witches in fairy tales (because they sometimes ate little children or turned them into animals), scared of the neighbors’ huge, abandoned shack in their backyard (and of who or more accurately, what might live inside) – but it had never felt like this. It had never felt as bad.

I had nightmares for days: someone wrapped me up in clothes, layer after layer after layer, someone put me in a bag and tied it up and just left it somewhere, someone locked me up in a dirty room full of nothing. Some nights I woke up and was sure I sat in a trash can. Some nights I woke up and struggled to breathe.

Finally, though, the nightmares stopped.

The poster was put up on a wall, near the main entrance, but we still went back to recess and lunch eating contests after a while. Because that’s what people do and because we didn’t know what else to do.

But what we knew (what I knew) ever since that day: something was awfully wrong. And we all felt (I felt) it wasn’t just something in our neighborhood, it felt bigger than that. Something was awfully wrong – we knew it and we felt it but we didn’t want to think about it – with the world. We had, after all, discovered it. We had (I had) discovered evil.

[According to the National Crime Victimization Survey (NCVS), kids have crime victimization rates over two times higher than adults. For the year 2000, the approximate total number of violent crime victims from birth through 17 is 1,935,000. That is one child among forty. That is one child in every other classroom.1]

How kids should feel about the world, as long as possible – and how the world should feel about them (picture by Romero Britto).

1: Stats: University of New Hampshire, Crimes Against Children Research Center

Thank you. Thank you very much.

I’ve seen it. You’ve all seen it: someone wins the Oscar, tumbles upstage in bliss and is so overwhelmed by the moment that their acceptance speech goes on for-ev-er. And because the people backstage have seen it, too, and because they’re clever little girls and boys, they’ve come up with a semi-polite way to shut up the winner before the entire audience falls asleep – the (in)famous get-your-overpaid-butt-off-stage-now-will-ya-melody!

It’s effective and quite catchy, too. Its recognition value approximately equals that of the ice cream truck melody. The only difference: while one has kids (and one or two adults who still feel young at heart…and me) running out onto the street as if they were chased by a group of armed Alcatraz escapees, the other one has people blinking, kind of confused, and, reluctantly withdrawing from stage.

Now, you may ask yourself: what’s that got to do with the price of eggs in China (or any other country of your individual choice)?

The answer: well, guess what? That ain’t not happening to me tonight, folks! I can take as much time (and space) as I want to thank all the people I’ve ever met (I can even tell you silly anecdotes about them if I really want to) in order to celebrate that I’ve been – drumroll – freshly pressed!

However, because I know how annoying that might be, I won’t. I’m just saying I could. Just. Saying. What I really want to do, though, is share the two emotional stages I just went through, due to the special occasion.

Stage I: Doubt.

At first, I couldn’t even believe someone had picked my post! I refreshed my wordpress every other minute like a maniac to see whether my post would actually pop up among all those wonderful freshly pressed entries. I pondered the odds and must have looked kind of like this…

Me, still in doubt.

 

Stage II: Exitement.

When I finally realized I hadn’t just made everything up in my head (which wouldn’t have been that unlikely), I was thrilled through the roof. I still am. So right now, I must look somewhat like this…

 

Me, truly excited.
Photo credit for both pictures: CB – you know who you are!

 

No, sorry, I’m not quite done yet – just real quick:

Stage III: Thank you!

Thank you guys, for all the nice words, the likes, the follows! I’m a happy blogger today. Also, thanks Mom, for carrying me around for 8 months and all those hours of labour. Of course, you deserve to be mentioned here as well! That’s all for now. I’m out. Good night, kids.

A Piece of (Personal) History.

Monday’s children.

Part of the Berlin Wall – painted by artists after 1989.

Birthday Wishes.

I was born on a Saturday. Twenty minutes to midnight I came: no beautiful dress to show off, just one of the smooth glass slippers, the left one. Old spells seem to wear out much quicker these days. Even on your birthday. Old superstitions, however, never do: my mother always says she would have wanted me to be born on a Sunday. If only you could have taken these extra minutes, she’d say, you’d have been born a Sunday’s child – born under a lucky star, as they say. Maybe then, things would have been a little different, she thinks (and sometimes my mother must have wished for things to be different). That’s probably what she’s really wanted, for a long time (but there’s no spell, not even an old one, that can turn back time) – you just never understand these things when you’re younger. On the other hand, maybe things wouldn’t have been that different after all – but who knows? (I don’t.) Probably a lot of babies were born that Sunday, and possibly, all of them lucky– but again, who knows? (No one does.)

Written in the Stars.

I’m quite sure, though, that all the babies born on the Monday after, they were born under a revolutionary star – born under a night sky lit up by candles, torches, lanterns; born to the sound of raised voices; born to the smell of autumn; born to the bittersweet taste of frustration paired with anticipation. Every time my mother sees a shooting star and wishes I was born on a Sunday, I close my eyes and wish I was born on a Monday – I would like to be a Monday’s child. I would raise my candle, torch, lantern and leave a mark: a dab of light, like a tiny hole in the dark sheet that covers the earth at night. There’s more to life than simple luck; more than old spells that wear out even before the clock strikes twelve, more than old superstitions that leave you hanging on to things that could have been. You can’t change the past, but maybe, if you try, you can change the future.

Zeitgeist.

Sometimes, in the short moment before falling asleep, I feel the light of candles, torches and lanterns warm on my skin; I hear people chanting; I can smell fallen leaves and I’m overcome by a sullen feeling, quickly followed by a feeling of hope. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel restless. It’s nothing I could ever explain, it’s just something that is. If I had to try to find words for it, I might simply say that I’m a child of my times. We all are.

Hearts and Cages.

Even now, the idea seems so strange, so unnatural, that I can’t wrap my head around it. No matter how hard I try. No matter how often I try. Sometimes I look at a map and trace the borderline with my index finger. With my scalpel, I cut through a city, an entire country – I become a surgeon. I take out half a nation’s heart (pincers!), just like that (swab!), and it’s bleeding all over me. Desperate people behave in ways that scare me. They get that frantic look in their eyes that always reminds me of a caged animal. And maybe that’s what they are: caged. Trapped in their despair.

Solidarity.

We’re all people. We’re all in this together. We’re all created equal. But then: How could anyone be so mean (cruel)? How could anyone be so indifferent (inhumane)? How do you sell an entire country for a breadcrumb’s worth of power? How do you barter with millions and millions of people’s fate? Everything’s going to be okay, they said. In the end. They’re all liars; or blind and dumb and deaf. Or all of that. The upside : They’re also solidary like nothing else: you didn’t even have to kill yourself – it was done for you (working men of all countries unite. Unite, unite, unite. Shoot, shoot, shoot.). Once there was a man. He looked at the grey concrete, the barbed wire and the men with their nice uniforms and polished guns and he realized: you have to run. For freedom. Whether you’ll make it or not – you’ll be free, everything’s going to be okay, in the end.

Dancing.

I don’t know whether my mother was truly happy about the fall of the wall. I once asked her if she remembered what she’d done the night people were dancing on it, if she’d been dancing as well. I probably changed your diapers, she’d said, and that was that. My mother never was the dancing type – but maybe not because she didn’t want to dance, I often think the world just wouldn’t let her.

Aftermath.

The sudden feeling of liberation might have been too much to handle for some – as anything that comes down on you so unexpectedly and overwhelming. The wall came falling down in front of their feet and then the ground fell out from underneath them. Maybe it was that feeling that scared away my father. Or maybe he was just high on freedom and so he went to find some more, another fix. And I don’t think anyone could have held him back, not with any luck of the world.

Little things.

~ random thoughts on a quiet summer night.

Somewhere on the ocean.

Some days are hard to get through. Usually, there are many reasons why (and sometimes, it seems there is no reason at all; maybe because, sometimes, all these reasons bleed together and become something bigger; something not quite tangible – like fog):

  1. A great book turned into an awful movie.

  2. Losing something.

  3. A word spoken without care.

  4. Missing something.

  5. The break-up of a good band.

  6. Losing someone.

  7. A starless sky.

  8. Missing someone.

However, even during these days, these heavy ones, these seemingly never-ending ones, there are little things that make them worthwhile. Things that ask you to pause, to take a deep breath; that make you realize that in the midst of the struggle, there’s also beauty (little flickers of happiness; hope):

  1. The sunset.

  2. That after-rain smell.

  3. A good song.

  4. The sound of steps in the snow.

  5. A good book.

  6. A hot cup of coffee.

  7. A good conversation.

  8. The sunrise.

PS:

Sitting, waiting, drinking wine.

Shake it out. Seriously: Shake – it – out…

I’m sitting here, a glass of wine in my right hand (because it usually helps me to talk a lot more than I normally would and maybe, the same goes for writing?), waiting for inspiration to strike me – like lightning, or at least, like a tiny spark.

I’m sitting here, fairly uninspired.

Last night, I did manage to get a start on what bears the potential to become a fully-grown and respectable story. And yet. It already has a fair amount of brothers and sisters huddled in drawers, crouched together in notebooks, sitting and waiting in long-forgotten files on my laptop: none of them ever made it past the literary toddler-stage.

There must be something in the air that constantly stunts their growth – maybe the occasional incense I light, or maybe there’s asbestos within the walls of my apartment, or maybe an old case of writer’s block, drawn-out.

Still, I’m sitting here, fairly uninspired.

Story Beginning, Pt. I:

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

It was early, merely dawn. The sun hadn’t had its morning coffee yet and was stumbling across the sky, still half-asleep. Much like her.

She didn’t even know what time it was. She had been awake for hours, flipping through pages, pages and pages. Running her fingers over every single word, every single letter in the book. Breathing them.

She’d taken them all in, had almost choked on them. It was his handwriting.

Now, she knew all of it by heart. And yet. She just really wanted to know him. Understand him. Understand it all.

March 23, 2012 in the upper right corner. Then: Mary. Then: Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary  Mary  Mary  Mary Mary Mary Marymarymarymarymary.

Then: Nothing.

Because there wasn’t another day, not for him.

I’m sitting here, a glass of wine in my right hand (three or four sips emptier than before), waiting. Maybe not even for inspiration. Maybe, I’m just waiting.

I’m waiting, inspiration?

I opened a window to air out the past days’ heat that’s collected in the small room, gotten stale; some of the past days’ memories that have collected in the window curtains like cigarette smoke (I am sorry; Don’t apologize; I am truly sorry; I know; I am sorry things are so complicated; So am I…).

I’m waiting, inspiration?

Story Beginning, Pt. II

“Why is the sky so big?” His question came out of nowhere, like always.

A minute ago he had been busy biting off the crust of his peanut butter sandwich. Now, he was looking at her through his thick-framed glasses (the ones she didn’t want to buy him because they made him look uncomfortably grown-up – but he had insisted).

She tried to think of an answer that would make sense to him, like always.

Usually, she couldn’t come up with anything that seemed reasonable enough to him. Scientific enough. Once, she had tried to put on her favorite high school teacher’s tone – simply to sound scientific. She really tried. She wanted to explain the world to him. Yet mostly, she couldn’t. She knew that. Mostly, the world was too complicated for her to understand, let alone explain it to anyone else. One day, she hoped, he would be the one to explain things to her.

“Or do you think we are just so small?” He was still looking at her. Crumbles of toast and smears of peanut butter stuck to his mouth and tiny fingers.

“That’s probably it, Coop” she said. She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

Still, I’m sitting here, fairly uninspired.

I’m waiting, inspiration?

Still, I’m waiting, fairly uninspired.

I’m sitting here, inspiration?

Still, inspiration?

Story Beginning, Pt. III

She’s standing at the edge, bent forward a little. Her thin, white dress is fluttering in the wind: one moment it rests calmly on her legs, like a second skin almost, entirely covering the pink scar on her left knee; the next moment it shoots up into the sky, maybe wanting to cover up other scars (ones that are not pink but black or some dark shade of blue or purple); scars that lie way beyond her left knee, beyond anything really.

She’s standing at the edge, bent backwards a little. Her smooth, brown hair is fluttering in the wind: curls are flying through the air, like migrating birds – always headed South, South, and further South…

She’s squatting. Her hands feel their way along the two ropes they’ve been gripping tightly for the past several minutes (maybe hours). She’s sweating. It’s October, but unusually hot – the summer has melted in its own heat and oozed into the cracks of fall, sweet and sticky, like syrup (maple).

The swing creaks as she’s moving: backwards, forwards; forwards, backwards.

I’m sitting here, a glass of wine in my right hand (it doesn’t help to loosen my tongue, it just make it numb, which is just as good, at least for tonight), waiting. I’m here she says, I’ve been here all alongyou just didn’t want to see me, her voice sounds unusually high, accusingly. I know, I do know. I try to reassure here. I’ve been here all along (a pair of eyes; grey, almost blue). You just didn’t want to see me (I couldn’t bear it; I already feel you all the time — I can’t feel any more).

I’m sitting here, not waiting but wondering. I wonder, now that inspiration has found me, what I am going to do with it.

We always claim that it is inspiration we need. And yet. Inspiration is not like an invisible friend that whispers stories into your ear and keeps your nights from being too lonely, too dark. Sometimes, it’s an invisible friend that pushes you into the lonely darkness (a pair of eyes; grey, almost blue), makes you dive in deep in order to find the stories that are hiding at the very bottom of it.

I’m sitting here, slowly finishing my wine. I’m here she says, I’ve been here all along.

Aspen Season.

Aspen season

I)

00:18: It’s over –

the rain stopped, finally.

The night’s gotten too cold,

she shivers (it must be

aspen season already).

She shakes

off water drops that

have collected beneath

the folds of her

many, many eyes.

The water drips down and

she breathes a sigh of

relief – a night breeze,

soft and sweet and a little bitter.

I think, it’s really over.

II)

00:19: Clang –

broken glass or

porcelain, maybe?

No, it was the moon.

She fell off the sky.

She fell to pieces:

how beautifully they glimmer

as they drift in

a tiny puddle of dirt –

what an odd wishing well.

I light a cigarette

and make a wish.

III)

00:20: Smoke fills the kitchen –

I don’t open a window.

I just don’t know how

to let go of things.

I let it fill the empty space

he left behind (along

with an empty promise:

see-through and

revenant like a ghost or

maybe just a nightmare);

all the emptiness

seeping out

of the walls, the sockets,

blue and quiet

like electricity.

IV)

00:21: Clang

louder this time, almost violent.

I feel a breath

in my neck, a cough:

sour and stale.

I blink, splinters in my

shivering hands (it must be

aspen season already):

Your promise – it lies in pieces and

finally, I can even see it:

Tiny holes in the dark like

fresh cuts that won’t stop bleeding.


From Theory to Reality – a Short Round Trip.

It all seems so simple. It’s important to pursue one’s passion. To pursue happiness, essentially. Anything else will make you – to say the least – unhappy at the end of the day. That’s in theory.

I hate theory land. Whenever I stop by for a visit, I end up feeling like a big, big (we’re talking giant-size) fool. Because in theory land, things are always so clear: you shouldn’t like a person that doesn’t seem to care because you will only get hurt; you shouldn’t jump off a swing at that moment when you’re so high you feel like you could touch the sky because the fall gets you down to earth faster than you could ever imagine; you shouldn’t have that second (third, fourth…) candy bar because you will be very, very sick after. Theory land should be wiped off the map – I think, I will personally draw it on a map (roughly somewhere north, north, north of Alaska possibly) just so I can wipe it off again. At least, I will leave theory land for now.

Let’s take a look at reality land instead. In reality land, things look a bit different. They are more complicated. In reality land, thing’s aren’t either black or white; they come in all different (often very odd) shades of gray: you like a person that doesn’t seem to care because maybe things might eventually change; you jump off a swing at that moment when you’re so high because maybe you’ll be able to just fly away; you have that – insert respective number here – candy bar because there’s too much deliciousness happening to simply stop. Also, in reality land, there are little things hiding in the the thicket; things besides just this one passion – like paying rent and buying groceries, for example. And they make a point of being equally important and responsible for your/my/everyone’s happiness. They’re the little reasons that keep a lot of people from pursuing their passion.

In a nutshell: a regular income has its appeal too. I’m certainly a fan. I applaud it. If there was any, I would even buy the official merchandise for it – because my lovely little income allows me to do so.

That’s why right now, I feel uncomfortably torn apart. In front of me, there are “Two roads diverg[ing] into a yellow wood” as Mr. Frost would say, and yes, I’m really sorry that it seems I cannot travel both.

that’s exactly how i remember the poem to look like in my English textbook in school

I have to make a decision – one I already should have made some time ago, probably; one I have avoided, always trying to find some middle ground, always trying to keep the balance; always being neither here nor there. This is not a state anyone should or is even able to be in for too long. It’s exhausting, and, it’s, of course, just a matter of time until you fall, or at least, stumble. Stumble I did. I certainly don’t want to fall. I know what I’m passionate about. I just wonder if this is the place and time to let my passion lead the way. Maybe I’m too impatient. Maybe I should be sensible (but what does that even mean?) — all of these maybes, pros and cons, again the search for a middle ground, balance.

Mr. Frost, Robert, Rob – am I allowed to say that? Yeah, sure, why not. Rob it is – what made you decide? Your inner voice? A dream? A friend’s advice perhaps? Oh, I see. Well, that works, I suppose. So, you flipped a coin. Maybe that’s what I’ll do then.

Scattered.

First: The obligatory apology for having neglected my blog for so long. It seems, I have been quite the neglecting being lately. I may have been neglecting not only my writing but also some people over the last couple of weeks. My apologies for all of that. I didn’t really mean to, I have just found myself being somewhat – scattered…

...when thoughts scatter like birds...

Scattered.

Coherence! – an angry voice is yelling, somewhere in the back of my head: Coherence for crying out loud!

A number of thoughts are twisting and shouting in my mind – freestyle – while some are standing by the punch bowl (spiked, f*** yeah…), holding on to whatever there is, staggering, trying not to fall over. Other bits and pieces of me are hiding in broom closets and niches: getting high, making out, writing their last goodbyes before jumping into the darkness…

Coherence! – was lost somewhere down the road.

I’d like to twist or shout or get drunk or get high or make out or write my last goodbye – I don’t feel any need to jump, though. I’ve been collecting my own darknesses in a shoebox since I was four. They come in all shapes and sizes. And different shades of dark. They are, in fact, pretty to look at and feel quite nice. Like tiny pieces of velvet. Coherence! What’s one got to do with the other? She asks.

This angry voice again; it sounds like my second grade teacher who I was scared of.

Shut up! I’m feeling scattered.

Sometimes, it is a nice feeling. Sometimes, it smells of empty roads, summer rain, the sea – of i-can-do-whatever. Other times, it feels heavy, like sinking. It feels like missing a piece, a limb; lacking. Because there are parts of me scattered all over. I’ve been leaving them behind like pebbles – to make my way back, someday, in the moonlight. In spite of monsters lumbering. In spite of the dark.

Coherence! – has been annoying me ever since writing my first essay in second grade for the teacher who I was scared of. Coherence! – is highly overrated, for crying out loud!

I’d like to do a million things at the same time. I’d like to be in a million places at the same time. I’m dreaming a million dreams at the same time.

I want to be there for my friends and family whenever they need me I wanttobethere for myfriends – my family – whenever (Coherence!) I want to be a writer a teacher I want to make adifferencein childrenspeoples (Coherence?) livesatleastforsomeofthem I wanttoteachand notbescaredIwanttoteach and not scaremystudents I wanttowrite astorypoetryanovelabook. (Coherence?!)

I want to be.

Coherence!

Shut up –

I am scattered. And sometimes, it is a nice feeling.

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I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.