The Last Letter

When reflecting on this past day, I am reminded of a story I wrote once. It was called The Last Letter.

More than the story itself, what I had wanted to convey when I wrote it was my own physical ailments that I was experiencing at the time. I attributed it to my backpack straps pinching nerves in my shoulders. I would get random spasms of pain from my nerves, in my neck, shoulder, head. Anywhere it could hit, it did. It was like something was stabbing my temple, and I usually ducked my head to try to get away from it. Often, it made me flinch when I had such a spasm. In my story, these happened to my character, and she was dying. This last week, I have had the same such nerve chaos that I was experiencing nearly two years ago. 

It is painful, to say the least. Horrible headaches - like sharp jabs at my temples, base of my head, neck, shoulders, and lately - lower abdomen. 

Now that I look at it, I believe the origin to be more caused by stress and lack of sleep than backpack straps. Not a fun picture to assess. Maybe my body reacts badly to such things anymore. It had too rough a time in high school - perhaps I should have treated it better. My wrist was throbbing all day today, and again, I believe it is how I have treated it in the past. My past will forever haunt me, it seems.

Bruises come, and fade, but do not completely go. They still hurt, and you can still see their imprints on my legs. Except for the recent burn on my wrist, I seem to scar more than I ever properly heal. Perhaps this is a statement on my life.

I don't mean to complain my way through this blog. It seems that's all I have done the past few posts. I apologize. Life isn't all horrible. I simply like to dwell on my disappointments sometimes. And when I do so, it helps me to think, and analyze myself more than I would if all I spoke of were good things.

I am getting along with my grandparents far better than I ever have before - and that is a fact I am quite happy to acknowledge. I have written at least 12 or 13 pages on my book in the past month, and that is more than I can say for the past year. That too makes me happy. I survived one year of college - and that amazes me. I still have friends to talk to (though I often feel alone more than anything else) and that is a comforting thought, when I can remember it. I have those who love me, and would help me if I need it, and that is something one should never forget.

But so often I get mired down in the icky details of life, the sludge that makes a murky haven in my words and thoughts.

I am at least moderately healthy. And except for the few bumps I have hit along the road in the past couple weeks, I am in a good place with those in my life. Some things can never be fixed, and other things must be accepted or be allowed to ruin you. 

Perhaps, with the events of this summer, I will learn better. Hindsight makes sages of us all. But if only the lessons are absorbed, perhaps they might help me along this road, and around the potholes and puddles.

Philosophical I wax tonight, it would seem. Perhaps in my dreams the words I have written will penetrate deep enough to be understood and absorbed and wielded with the purpose they were intended for.

Until then, and for now. Good night.

Randomosity in a nutshell, if that's even a word. ;)

This post will, I hope, be considerably shorter than the last few have been.

I suppose I just wanted to update.

I'm finally, actually, working on my book right now. I can't vouch for actual additions (in any supreme length) or extensive editing, but I've been doing little minor touches here and there. Not to mention the fact that I have got the next chapter (chapter 28, unbelievable as it is) all mapped out, I just need to figure out the logistics of it so I can write it out in full. I reached my 240 page marker today, which is thoroughly exciting.

I've also hit a bit of a dilemma. My antagonist comes down with some sort of fatal illness, one which I haven't quite figured out. It's very complicated to the plot-line, and exhausting doing the research on it to match things up, because it can't be highly contagious, or my protagonists will die as well. I've been doing some more research tonight, as I did some months ago when I hit this roadblock, but I still haven't really uncovered just the perfect disease. The time period (which the book is in) is appropriate enough for the Black Death, but - the symptoms for the least fatal version (ie. the only version of it not able to be passed human to human) doesn't have the symptoms I'm really looking for. I've almost decided it should just be some sort of pneumonia, but I can't really be satisfied with the fatality rate of it, or the rapidness of the illness itself.

Hm. Yeah, odd thing to be thinking of, no doubt. (grins)

I'm still debating what to do with my father. I've been talking to L. (my best friend) who's gone down to visit her mom for a week and half, and to see her new little half-brother. She's partly the reason I haven't gotten to bed before three in the morning for about a week. But, a lot of that is me, too. Lol.

Anyway, I haven't really got anything of substance to impart.

I finally picked up the book I need to study to get my driver's license. So, I should be able to get that out of the way by at least the end of the month. (winks) I honestly will get it done though, finally, I have full confidence in myself. (sticks tongue out at incredulous looks from imaginary audience) . . . .

Um. Yeah.

I'm rather enamored of peace sign necklaces. I've only just (finally - which seems to be my favorite word at the moment) bought my first one. I don't buy necklaces often, and I never seem to find any peace sign necklaces that I like. But, the above necklace is just something I found online. Isn't it awesome? (grins)

And this one, you have to look a little closer to see the charms on it, but, I think it's quite charming (if you'll excuse the pun). Lol.

And lastly:

Though mine is only on a little silver chain. Oh well. Life goes on. (winks)

Ta, then.

In retrospect.

Maybe I wasn't ready yet. Maybe I wasn't over Jeremy yet, it had only been a month or two since he'd left. Maybe I was still too young, still too naive, still too damaged, too selfish, too unclear and unseeing. I didn't know myself very well back then, nor did I know much of what I was doing, or what my actions meant to you. I was rather blind back then. Or maybe it wasn't meant to be just yet. Perhaps we were meant to wait a little while, wait for a new kind of understanding.

Or maybe, maybe I was just scared. Scared to let someone in, scared to get close to anyone, scared to be left behind or ignored or taken for granted. Scared that you might leave like Jeremy left. Scared that I wasn't really worth all that much, scared to be proven right. Absolutely terrified and unwilling to admit it. Perhaps that was why I never took the chance to try.

Too selfish to understand when I had something good. I've had to grow up quite a bit since then, I feel eight years older than I ought to be. But then, you needed to grow up as well, didn't you? You've matured since then. I can see that. You've grown up, and it looks good on you. I can admit that now, I suppose.

You bring a smile to my face even while I'm still wondering whether there will ever be anything between us. Even when I'm sad as hell at the prospect of never seeing you again, you still make me a little bit happier. When I'm tired and wallowing in self-pity, you make me want to be happy, just to see that glint in your eyes. And you try to cheer me up, do little things to make me smile. I can see that. I just worry that it's not only me you think about. I worry that I'm not the one.

I find myself wondering if I will still know you in ten years. If I will remember you, or if we will still be friends, or even something more. I just read a book about the afterlife, I wonder about my own, if I even believe in that sort of thing. Will I get a flashback of my entire life and see you when we were 'young,' and wonder what happened to you, if you're happy wherever you ended up in life, if you still thought about me? Will I ever publish a book and have that knowledge, deep within my heart, that somewhere, you might see it, recognize my name, and smile to remember that silly young girl you once knew.

Tears come to my eyes now, I suppose that's only fitting. This is starting to feel more like a farewell letter, now, which wasn't what I intended. I only hope it's a beginning, not an end. A beginning. I hope you're there to give me inspiration for my stories, and be the only reason I ever write a poem about love. I hope you're the first to read my book, and the first to hold me together when I feel like I'm crumbling and falling apart. I hope you're there. I hope that I'm not wishing, that I'm not grasping at nothing, and imagining just another story. I hope you're not just someone I'll remember in the years to come.

I want to travel to Ireland and Australia with you, and everywhere else combined. I want you by my side when I marvel at the crumbling ruins of ancient castles, enduring and powerful even when broken. I want you there, I want you here. I don't want to forget, or give up.

Or do I wish for too much?
_____

It's not much longer now - he gets the note in 5 days (not what I've written above). He's been coming to my locker between classes, we talk. He's got the best eyes - they're hazel, but I usually only see them when they're green. I always wanted to fall for a guy with green eyes. He gets his hair cut this weekend. I wonder how he will look.

I've been losing weight these past couple months. I wonder if he's noticed. I'm proud of myself, though. I'm very proud.

And if next week is the last week I'll ever see him for the rest of my life, I know I'll cry.

An old letter.

I was browsing through my old notebooks this afternoon, looking for old notes I made for my book, and stumbled over this, quite unexpectedly. This is a letter I wrote once, a while ago. It was supposed to be for C., but I just felt like I had intruded on his life enough, so I never sent it. Then again, I think I just wrote this letter for myself, my kind of closure to a nonexistant era of my life. We're brief friends now, though. So, I suppose, I finally let go of that little delusion of mine. :) Anyway, I always wanted to share it, if not with him, then with someone. So, here goes.

...

I am insignificant, I see this now.
A drop of water in the ocean, a snowflake in the depths of winter, a fallen leaf in the midst of autumn.
Insigificant.
And I bounce, intermittently, between finally persuading myself of the truth, and unable to believe it.
So it is the same with you.
I know all of what you've written has never been with me in mind, yet I still manage to convince myself that it is, at times.
Not only frustrating to you, but frustrating to me as well.
I've always placed my heart in my poems, and simply assumed others did the same. I've always imagnined life like that.
I also know, once you've read this, you will probably sigh or growl in frustration, fingers itching to correct me. You've always been quick to retaliate. Will you be this time as well?
No. I'm certain you will not, because you will just delete the email, erase the poem, forget for once and all this fading memory. As you should, as you must.
Like I said: insignificant.
A drop of water evaporates, a snowflake melts and dissolves, an autumn leaf crumbles.
We all fade, in time. That is the natural cycle, the pattern that cannot be broken.
...

Anyway, I'm trying to find a sort of occupation for the rest of my day. It doesn't feel like seven o'clock, at the moment. The sun lingers too long for comfort, I suppose. Read, a bit of homework, a bit of housework, a bit of pretending like I'm not affected by anything. Just five weeks left, though. Hm.

*Except for the 'Jesus' element to this song, I really like it. I was going to just quote it, but found there were too many lines I liked, so I've posted the entire thing instead.*

Editing.

Wow. I feel like a camel at an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. I've drunk so much water today it's almost astonishing. You know Nalgene bottles? 32 ounces each. I'm on my third. Well, I guess if I'm thirsty . . .

So I've started editing my book now. I've found that it is much easier to edit on paper, so I printed off the prologue, and found there is much more that I want to change than I had originally thought. But that's okay. I wrote the beginning so long ago. . . god, it must have been March of my sophomore year that I first began this entire thing. Damn. *pauses a moment*

It's been quite a while since I wrote the beginning of my book, and my writing has changed and (hopefully) improved quite a bit since then. So, I need to update that part, and edit it and make it sound better. I think there's a lot missing from the prologue that should be there, especially since I've figured out some plot-lines since then that change some things drastically and mean I need to take notice of other things more. Character personalities, for instance, and the ever-present foreshadowing that hint at something that definitely comes up in the epilogue. I'm excited, but still, this is very daunting.

One step at a time though, one at a time.

I need to do some chores, now, then. I guess I truly ought to, it'll improve my mother's mood at least a little if I do. Lol. I ought to try, at the very least. So, goodbye for the day, or the moment.

Pleasant musings. ;)

A poem - among other things.

So here I am, again, wondering what it is I ought to do. Should I try to force out a poem that actually sounds good to me? I feel like I haven't written in a month or more, which is not what I do. Writing is a constancy in my life, how could I have abandoned it so healthily?

*sighs* The words just don't seem to want to come to me, I suppose.

Dinner went great, though my sister and I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way, so it took us an extra thirty minutes. By 8 o'clock everyone, except my grandmother, was yawning. I think the cold temperature was making us just that much more sleepy. Then again, I only got . . . what, four hours of sleep? Yeah. Not good. Which is why, on the cusp of my potentially brilliantly relaxing weekend, I intend to sleep to the fullest in the time I am provided with. My shoulders and neck would thank me, I am sure. Ah, if only I could get some sort of neck massage. I've never had one - I wonder if it would work . . . ?

So sleepy. But I don't want to go to sleep, for some reason. I don't want to go to bed. It appeals, and yet, something is keeping me from it, I can't puzzle out what. Perhaps because, if I sleep, my weekend will be that much shorter, will seem cut off in the middle and sped up to the end. I don't want that.

I could type up some Jane Eyre, but . . . eh, that deserves its own post. A poem? Hm. I could type one of my more recent ones. I think I wrote this last week, or so. This poem will be the end of this post, I've written quite enough for tonight, though I still want to ramble on. Dilemma, but nevertheless - read on.

FOG
Did he need to be so secluded?
So isolated he forgot that the sun
Had never disappeared.
Trapped in his own despair,
He lowered the clouds from the heavens
Surrounded himself with sorrow
So willingly, so freely.
He exiled himself in a cloudy day
And forgot.
The world, the love that he needed
Manifested when he closed his eyes
When he ignored, when he forgot.
The sun shone brighter on his soul
Trying to dissipate the fog.
It lost the struggle, faded
In the depression of his will -
Fell on empty thoughts
And forgot itself, the reason, and
The hope behind
His shaded eyes.
He exiled himself to cloudier days
To forget about the heart
He left behind,
To ignore his fracture world
In the clouds he willed to come
Below the sky, and fill
His empty night,
His empty world,
His empty life and emptier heart,
With fog.

Behaviors and Habits

Forewarning, this is long. Possibly incoherent at times, or repetitive. The reason being that I originally wrote this in my notebook, killing my knuckles for a little over an hour. Regardless, I need to share this somewhere. Here is as good as anywhere, I reckon. This comes from a somewhat related topic which I’m “studying” in my psychology class: learning, conditioning, reinforcement, and so on. A facet of it struck my mind and I began writing on it, soon finding I could not stop.

An Essay on the Training of Behaviors and Habits
Taught behaviors – behaviors and habits learned from the consequences behind them. So what habits are so unsavory within us? What behavior do we need to be rid of?

Simple things in the minds of teachers. The clock gets close to the bell, the bell rings, students get ready to go either at or before. From elementary school, where the teachers wished students to be prompt, we will not dally for fear of being late or reprimanded, scolded for tardiness. Similar with when they call your name for attendance, you answer automatically and immediately to avoid being marked late, to avoid being punished or yelled at (or even embarrassed by being singled out in class).

How does this translate to life? The willful actions of our day, the purposeful choices. Are they truly willful, or, in some part, reflexive, reactionary, without thought? How much of our day is learned instinct, or primitive, natural?

You’re hungry – so you eat. But you can train your body to be hungry at certain times – with varying amounts of food (less and less, or always more per day) – whether you truly are hungry or not. If your body is used to it, are you truly in need of something to eat, or do you simply want it because you usually get it?

In childhood, as a baby, you start out, at mealtimes, where you’ll only eat what you’re hungry for, what you want. Dessert comes after a meal, whether a wholesome meal or a McDonald’s Happy Meal (it makes no matter). As you grow up, you get dessert if you eat such and such amount, or if you finish or clean off your plate. We are trained, then, to eat everything we have at supper to receive the expected reward – dessert. As we grow older, we clean off our plates, hurriedly or slowly, with no thought to whether we are full or not. We do so with our minds fixated on one thing, one objective: what we get after. We pay no mind (keep track of this idea) to how we get there, we simply want it (in this case – dessert) so we do what we have to in order to get it. Sometimes the reward is playtime, a certain toy, the permission to watch a show, the ability to finally go out with your friends. Again, it makes no matter. The reward is still enough to train your mind to eat quickly to receive it.

This is similar, as well, to other habits you might, unknowingly, be trained to perform. Just as you can train yourself to be hungry, you can train yourself to wake up at a certain hour, or to become sleepy at a certain hour. You get up early instinctively for school or work, and thus (in time) your habit of sleeping in on the weekends is hindered, prevented, or made harder or impossible. You stay up late during vacations, and thus you’re not tired when you need to go to bed early for school.

Back to the food and hunger issue. There is also the social side of this gratification. How easy is it, truly, to eat healthy in a household full of fast-food junkies? To eat sparingly in a home of binge-eaters? You may pull it off for a while, but they’re very set in their ways (unfortunately). One individual amongst many holds only so much sway in the way things are run. Mob-rule, eventually, inevitably, rules all. The single individual succumbs to the overwhelming majority, unwillingly at first. Over time, their mind assimilates, they adapt and slowly evolve. In the course of things, in a general sense, they become just like those they resisted. The adoption of habits is unwilling in the beginning, but the body is trained well and easily. To survive, to get on with as little resistance and strife and unpleasantness as possible, we eat what they eat. This is a general idea, but true. The mind is unwilling to be alone when conformity is possible. Over a large sum of years, a married couple gradually comes to resemble each other, an owner resembles their dog (either in personality, temperament, habits, or appearance), friends resemble friends, family – family, and so on. Individuals, together for longer periods of time than brief or cursory, tend to adopt similar habits and behaviors. This can be good, and it can be bad. Stronger individuals tend to hold greater sway over what the outcome will be, over what the prevalent habits will become. It is to be hoped that the stronger individual has the better habits, but it is not always the case. Thus comes about the inevitable distortions in our genes, our personality, and our instinctive habits. It happens. With great difficulty is it avoided.

This might explain something toward the “Freshman 15” where incoming freshman are suddenly exposed to a larger population of individuals with undesirable habits (in this case, eating the wrong food, drinking, etc, to create an unsavory weight gain), and thus succumbs to the majority. Some might term this peer pressure, I say it’s more instinctual, the fitting in and the need to. Peers need not apply pressure: it’s habit to conform.

So to attempt prevention, to allude to the blocking out, the extinction, of the habits we do not want, the breaking away from past and surrounding (ie. other people’s) behaviors, what must we do? Incorporate negative results, sharp and painfully conscious consequences? How?

There is a drug for alcoholics, to reduce their instinctive habit of turning to alcohol for solace. It is a fact that they became addicted, over whatever period of time, because of some reason or other, because becoming drunk provided escape or created a positive emotion or desired result (the reasons vary far greater than I can provide of my own imagination). The drug, however, makes them sick, nauseous, makes them throw up, if they drink any alcohol. This is meant to train their mind, to create in them an aversion towards the carrying out of said habit. A negative consequence to reinforce the unconscious, and also conscious, action and reaction. The body and mind are trained. But the participator must be that: a willing participant. After all, a certain amount of awareness is gained in maturity and creates stubbornness to change, stubbornness to accept and believe the needed results. This absolutely affects the entire process.

Awareness is both a good and bad influence. One must be able to influence one’s awareness, not simply one’s actions, or the consequences attached, in order to generate true change. There must be a sharp, poignant, highly memorable and influencing consequence for the consequence itself to have true sway over the mind. In addition, a negative consequence must be lasting, it cannot be fleeting or of an instant, in order to leave an indelible impression and memory. If the negative consequence is fleeting, the likelihood of its memory influencing the individual's behavior in the future becomes extremely unlikely.

Take someone who is allergic to something, and digests or comes into contact with the source of their allergies, an event which can be fatal, or extremely painful or unpleasant (in some circumstances). That person then learns almost immediately to avoid the source, when aware of what caused the unwholesome, un-enjoyable experience in the first place. Same with a diabetic: lack of/too much of one thing or other makes them perhaps so ill they need to go to the hospital to avoid death. As a result, they then learn what to eat, and what not to eat, and how much or when, to keep from experiencing the same event. Someone forgets to look both ways before crossing the street and they get hit by a car, perhaps break a bone, get rushed to the Emergency Room. The experience, often highly traumatic, prevents or conditions the individual, influences their reflexes, so that they refuse (either consciously or unconsciously) to cross the street without assuredly looking both ways first. Painful, traumatic, vivid events or experiences create a strong reflex. We learn immediately, and are aware (whether willfully or unknowingly) that we want to do all we can to avoid having to undergo the same experience again.

It is the same with one’s actions causing the death or extreme injury of another, the shock of the result is often enough to strike most painfully in one’s mind, and establish a change in one’s behavior to avoid the event in the future. Drunk drivers, kids playing with guns, criminals, and overnight visitors to jail, the list goes on endlessly. But, in usual cases, if the event is unpleasant enough, one’s behavior evolves to change and decrease the possibility of a recurrence.

Is it possible as well to condition individuals to eat better foods? Introduce another factor, sickness, nausea, a hospital visit or other potentially painful memory, to prevent them from indulging in the wrong things? Change behavior by giving one a harsh, negative consequence?

As long as the reactions are able to sneak in under awareness. If we are aware of any possible method of getting past the negative result, if we have any memory of a time when the repeated indulgence of a food produced no negative result at all, it is not possible to change behavior. Consciousness must not be able to intrude on reflex, on nature, and one must be able to change nature itself to secure overall change. Permanent change – acquired only through assured constancy. The wrong action, the one you don’t want to occur, must without doubt occur in conjunction with a negative result. Otherwise, the mind is trained to extinction of the positive action, and all process reversed.

You must be always in awareness of negative consequence if you indulge, or all will be for naught, all to no avail, the positive habit extinguished and thought useless. A smoker will smoke forever unless they get cancer and know they will live only if they quit smoking (provided they actually want to live in the first place). If their condition neither improves nor worsens, or in fact continues to worsen as it had before, they often will continue to smoke or take up the habit again. If their condition becomes better, they will continue with the new habit of not smoking at all. Relapse into the old habit is often less likely the more the positive result continues. Sometimes one’s own awareness and consciousness intrudes on our better instincts, and the results will matter little to the habit the person indulges in. Thus, it might take some trial and error, some few times, to truly instill the new habit and one’s better, stronger, awareness of the better quality to it.

The negative result in relation to a negative behavior always influences the fostering or extinction of a positive behavior or habit, provided it is consistent and immediate, so as to see and know, with absolute conviction, that the two are related, are consequential, not coincidental, are significant and a matter of course, and not simply another unexplainable event.

One will continue to smile if smiled back at. If repeatedly frowned at instead, the action will cease. It is similar with a class clown, a recluse, or any number of individuals and their actions and behaviors, as well as their attitudes toward it all. If the recluse has only unpleasant experiences or memories when they do go outside, the memories are likely to only reinforce their reclusive habits. A class clown is laughed at, found entertaining, and he is egged on, by this encouragement, to continue with his antics. Reverse the results, and through inculcation the habits and behaviors will also reverse.

Avoid generalizing the stimulus, the catalyst, too much, or the influence of the negative result, and especially the negative result upon the undesired behavior and its influence upon the negative result, decreases into inconsequentiality, into nothing, nullifying the process entirely. Do not have any great number of actions (ie. more than one) create the same negative consequence, or the individual will not relate the specified, undesired action with the negative result. The likelihood of the individual connecting or relating one action with another result becomes less and less over time when generalized with too many preceding actions altogether.

This, as I think of it, attains, then, a similarity to something that happened with me rather recently. The beginning of a desirable habit, of instilling said habit, which was hindered in the process by an experience that resulted in a visit to the hospital. Hyperventilation (a scary, sharp and vivid memory), in which the original behavior (or what I had thought to be the true catalyst) was the introduction of unfamiliar equipment I had never used before. I, in some recess of my mind, attributed the use of that equipment to my terrifying experience. As a result of this negative consequence to the positive behavior, I subconsciously, unknowingly, weaned myself off the equipment and the use of it for fear of a repeat episode. I felt my issues with breathing, my conscientiousness of such a basic function, were a direct result of the behavior. Thus, this positive behavior and habit (using the work-out equipment) was virtually extinguished, a process helped along by the lack of positive results in weight loss, which had been the original, desired result and positive consequence all along.

So if the desired habit is to exercise, to produce the desired result (ie. losing weight) something needs to be added to increase both the likelihood of the positive result in carrying out the correct behavior and to increase the negative quality to the negative consequence for the carrying out of the wrong behavior. Rather complicated. Essentially, we need a harsher, more memorable and distinct negative consequence when we do not perform the desired behavior (ie. exercise). If you don’t lose weight when you exercise, you won’t see the point to it. You will not directly see the positive consequences (feeling better overall) because you are more focused on the obvious result, and thus won’t exercise further. If you injure yourself nearly every time you do exercise, you won’t want to exercise at all, no matter that the exercise itself is not the cause for the injury. You need some significant positive result to instill the desire, the need, the instinctive want, to exercise. Loss of weight, better grades (significantly better), more positive attention (in relationships), compliments, more energy, etc. If I was becoming more tired, getting less sleep, as a result of exercising, I was then less likely to want to exercise. There needs to be pointed, obvious, and positive consequences to pursue and maintain a good habit and behavior until it becomes second nature, instinctive, habitual.

The positive result for the positive behavior and the negative result for the negative behavior must coincide, or else the individual will be in a perpetual mood that denigrates the desired, eventual result. Spoiled in the positive or miserable in the profuseness of the negative. Either way becomes too extreme for continuation, such extremes become too much for the parties involved, and the chance of perpetuation decreases exponentially. If spoiled, the individual may take the positive results as a matter of course, they may take the positive results for granted, and eventually cease the positive behavior. I need not explain why the ‘miserable’ side would not be allowed (in the individual) to continue. These two extremes must be evened out. Failure creates greater desire to succeed, but there cannot be too much failure, or the desire to work towards success becomes less if an individual comes to believe that the work toward success creates no greater possibility of better results. If you fail more than you succeed, or you succeed only minimally, will you actually want to continue working? More likely, most individuals would lose the desire or will to pursue and maintain the positive behavior when the negative result occurs more frequently than the positive, or when the positive results satisfies less and less.

In essence, behavior can be taught and changed, provided the individual is aware of the change, is willing towards it, and provided there are consequences (both good and bad) for every action that said individual is attempting to alter. Behavior can be changed in every instance, but it becomes so very second-nature, so mindless and instinctual and habitual, that it takes effort and purposeful action to begin changing at all. Over time, the mind should adopt the desired habits, and thus change permanently, for the most part, the natural behavior of the individual. Of course, these things vary, as well. I speak only from a singular view point. That is the very definition of an essay in any case: an analytic and interpretative literary composition usually dealing with its subject from a limited or personal point of view. You see? I did my research. I have learned, through childhood experience, to make sure I don’t use a word in the wrong definition or context, to not attempt to distort the actual meaning of a word. Of course, things still slip my mind, but that is neither here nor there.

Writing.

I keep trying, trying and trying and trying, and yet, still, I cannot write a damn word that I want to. I have so many poems stuck in my head, blocked from the world, and they're all jumbled up in my mind and my heart and yearning to be written. But I can't. I try, I do try. But I can't.

I have random lines sketched all over my notebook, but still, nothing works. Nothing I write are the words that I want. I'm getting tired of it, but still I try. Here a line, there a phrase. I read so much else, hoping for something to spark that perfect word and set it all in motion. I listen to music all day, wishing something will make me see the poem I keep missing.

But it eludes me. That poem. It eludes me, as everything else does. And I am getting tired of it. I am getting annoyed, and frustrated, and depressed, and desperate, and just plain tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Where is the vision, the clarity of sight, that I have so dearly missed? Crushed beneath the steel-toe boots he insists on wearing specifically for me. And who is he? I don't know. I ask myself, and I don't know. I ask, and try, and fail, over and over again. It's starting to feel unstoppable, inevitable.

Umm, yeah.

I'm getting six hours of sleep at night, on school nights. Yay. :) That is extremely sad that that's three hours more than I've been getting for the past four months or so, but oh well. At least I am.

I dropped my Physics for another Study Hall. I've figured, or estimated, that I would have to go to bed at 8 o'clock to get a normal amount of sleep. At least I can get a lot of my homework done at school, hopefully. Hm. That's an issue. But I'm working on it.

Slowly, but surely. I don't really have anything I want to talk about, actually. I just needed to update on my blog that I had finished reading Persuasion (by Jane Austen). That's exciting news. I've read all six of her books now. :D

I'm writing on my book again (The Leaves of Autumn) and I'm at about 220 pages now. Yay! Lol. I finally found the inspiration to write this one scene that is absolutely crucial and that I've been wanting to write for a long time, as it has been sitting, unformed, inside my head for months. :D Now it's written, or the beginning of it is.

What else. Some books that just crossed my mind, that are related to Jane Austen in a way. If you feel like it, read them.

Austenland - Shannon Hale
Enthusiasm - Polly Shulman

They're fabulous. But, you've got to read the Jane Austen's books. Though not necessarily to read those two, you just need a general idea of the names or what happened in her books (of which there are 6). :D They're not that bad. Mansfield Park is my favorite, next to Persuasion. I can't remember how much I liked Emma, Pride and Prejudice was okay (it's highly over-publicized), Northanger Abbey was really short, and Sense and Sensibility was long. They're all good, don't get me wrong, but, hey, a girl's gotta have her preferences. ;)

I haven't really got much else to say. This entire post feels like a book review, or something to that effect. I haven't really spent much time on the computer, and I don't really want to anymore. Just to write on my book.

Anyway, I have to go now. Homework, books, and music are calling. :D

Pain - Three Days Grace
The Show - Lenka
Stars - Switchfoot
Second Chance - Shinedown
In Your Atmosphere - John Mayer
Can't Smile Without You - Barry Manilow

Enjoy. :)

Random shit.

La La Land - Demi Lovato
1, 2, 3, 4 - Plain White T's
Dreaming Out Loud - One Republic
The Diary of Jane - Breaking Benjamin (of course :)

I feel like I'm only listening to a select few songs, though. Like, just one or two.

I got a $10,000 scholarship. I just found out tonight. :D I was bouncing, literally. I hope I get the valedictorian scholarship, which can be up to $13,ooo. That would be the supreme of awesome. *grins*

I didn't do anything today. I tried to write a poem that wasn't stilted, wasn't so distanced. It's hard at the moment, the words seem to be pulling away from me a little. Or perhaps I never realized the level of concentration it takes to make a poem flow sometimes. I'm not really thinking.

I'm not really thinking, I didn't go to school today, I don't want to go tomorrow, I don't want to think. My chest hurts. Damn. I should put some clothes in the washer and just go to bed. *grimaces* I won't do that, though, will I?

Nope. Not a chance. *sighs*

What was that?

So, what was that about yesterday?

Let's see. Mood swings aplenty. No path in my mind, none for the future. I have no clue where I'm going or what I'm doing or what I'm supposed to do, and it's simply killing me.

Day before yesterday, as you might have seen, I had unbounded energy. When I got home, I was extremely sleepy. Then yesterday I was increasingly angry at everything as my day progressed, everyone simply irritating me beyond end. When I got home, I cried in front of my mom, probably for the first time ever. So, I was a little freaked out. My mood is changing so rapidly, and to such extremes, that even I'm getting dizzy. I can't keep up with myself anymore.

After crying to my mom for about fifteen minutes, trying to explain what I can't even explain to myself, she suggested we go to the greek resturant downtown. It was nice. I love that place, they have the best food. Unfortunately, because of that, I stuffed myself silly. But it was still delicious. Then, my sister came home with an enormous bag of M&Ms. Perfect.

I asked my mom if I could stay home today, and I did. It was wonderful, but I'm still tired.

On the bright side, I got into a college. It's only in town and stuff, but it's way better than nothing. That was one of the things I was freaking out about: I hadn't gotten into any colleges yet. I had no safety net. (That rhymes, doesn't it?) But still. Now I have at least something, even if I don't get any financial aid, even if I drown in debt, at least I have somewhere to go. My mom plans to move as soon as I graduate, my sister wants to move to Oregon, and I couldn't possibly live at my grandparents house, as they're getting older. So, now I have a place to go. Egads, I feel like a lost puppy dog. Everyone is abandoning me. Now, I've found my dog house, my little cardboard box next to that house down the street with the nice lady who gives out scraps. Sheesh.

Anyway. I have to write an essay for this Valedictorian scholarship, it's due in a couple of days. I figure, I'll get the rest of the forms for that place out of the way this week. I'm excited, and for the moment, not anxious anymore. I think.

Oh, did I mention? I got all A's for this semester. Still Valedictorian!! :D Still safe. Now, I just have to do the same for the next four months.

Fuck. I'm screwed.

I had a conversation with C. and somehow it turned up in our conversation where I said "You suck." and he goes "Is that why you're in love with me?" I answered him "I'm not in love you. Don't feel so special." And he goes "Damn! Now I can't rip your soul from your body" or some such shit. That's the way he is. But now he knows that I'm not in love with him. Lol. Yeah, don't give me that eye roll. I'm not. I like him, sometimes, but I'm definitely not in love with him.

My story that I'm doing with L. has finally got chapter one posted. Currently, I have chapters one through four written. I'm rather proud. But L is bugging me about "where is the story going to go" "what do we want to happen?" "how do we want it to end (character personality/growth-wise)?" God. She just needs to tell me what the hell she wants to happen, so I can think about it. But after she asks me all of this shit, she tells me that she hasn't even thought once about the story. That's what is so goddamn frustrating about this all. I'm getting rather irritated. Fuck, if she wants something specific, she needs to give me some goddamn examples.

Here I go again. All moody and stuff. Sorry. Anyway, the first chapter is up, and it's hilarious, I think. It's called "Brighter Than Neon." What do you think? I think you should read it. *laughs*

http://www.harrypotterfanfiction.com/viewuser.php?showuid=161359

And yes, our penname is 'twitchy_pigeons.' Got a problem with that?

Lol.

Good night whomever you are that reads this blog. And if you do read my story, review or comment on it. I would love feedback, even if it's anonymous. ;)

I found this.

I found this tonight as I was browsing my old entries on my poetry blog. I never posted this one, I saved it as a draft after deciding I didn't want to post it. I'm glad I never deleted it. It's a lot of things I don't think I'd be able to analyze at the current. I think there are some good points in here, as well. It's long, but not too bad. I need to record it somewhere.

—
November 13, 2008
I can’t concentrate, I can’t focus. Ugh, this is frustrating. My homework is piling up, and grading period is next week. I can’t afford to forget. Forget to work, forget to eat, forget to sleep. What is it everyone else nags you about? What you eat? The people you spend your time with? The risky, unhealthy, maybe dangerous and completely stupid things you do? Not me. No, I get pestered constantly about how much I sleep. Apparently, it is the cause of all of my problems. The reason why I can’t focus, why I get scars so easily, why I feel as though my heart keeps missing a beat, why my lungs seize the moment my heart stops, why my legs go numb almost instantly when I bend over, why I just can’t seem to get it together.

I’m past the whole depression issues, I think. Or, at least, I’m not thinking along that line anymore. But I am treading close to apathy, which has happened before. Yet this time I don’t know what is going to revitalize me, jump start my heart, push me back into the game. I can’t seem to make anybody angry at me anymore, which is odd in the fact that it’s frustrating. All I get is indifference, passivity, “Fine. Okay, if that’s what you want to do.” If I was a dog right now I’d be growling. I suppose frustrating is too light a word, then. Aggravating. Infuriating. Even more so for the fact that they are the ones who should be feeling what I feel, not the other way around.

But then I have to stop and think, ask myself “Why do I want them to be angry at me?” Perhaps I want to feel guilty about what I’m doing to myself, my health. I want to feel excruciatingly guilty about jeopardizing my own future simply because I can’t get it together, and in a way don’t want to. But they keep letting me. They don’t care. ‘It’s my future, let me do with it what I will. It’s my life, let me ruin it if I can.’ It just makes me want to cry out in frustration. Do they not realize how much damage I could actually inflict on myself before I ever think to turn around, before I ever get the idea to consider stopping my ruinous rampage? It may be my life, but for God’s sake, if they know so much better, if they have all that advice for me, why the hell don’t they act on it faster, sooner? Why the hell don’t they act on it at all. It isn’t as though I’m completely unreachable. I’m quite easy to get through to. But as soon as you abandon me, I abandon myself. I just want to scream at them “Don’t give me advice and then walk off, shrugging and saying ‘Huh, I don’t care, actually.’” It’s pointless. Useless.

Yes. Love, concern, worry, maybe even frustration at me as well. But it doesn’t seem to be enough to jump start them. What the hell will it take to wake them up?

I don’t want to kill myself, but I also don’t want that option to be in my hands. I don’t want that ability to be in my power. With power comes responsibility, with responsibility comes pain. Because it is pain to know what is right and what you must do, but not want to do it anyway. Who wants to live like this?

There will be those of you out there who want to yell at me that it is my goddamn life, I shouldn’t let others tell me what I should do. That’s weak, I know. Weakness. I know that also. But I know even more that all my life, I’ve been so tenacious in holding on to my independence, of not asking questions, of working without help, of going my own way. I’m not a follower. That is an absolutely foolish way to live. I know that, and you should as well. That isn’t strength. Hell, I don’t even know what strength is. It isn’t getting up everyday, though you don’t want to. That is passivity, resignation, indifference. It isn’t hiding your feelings, supporting yourself. That’s pride, fear. They can’t, even you can’t, tell me to be strong. I can’t be what I don’t know how to be. I can’t do what I don’t know.

Tenacity. That’s self-preservation. Independence is only fear of being let down by others, believing that you must take care of yourself because you can’t trust the world around you. Is trust the key?

Fear. That’s what governs me. Everything I do, isn’t it impelled by fear? The fear of losing something, the fear of being wrong, the fear of being forgotten. Doesn’t it seem ridiculous? Silly beyond words? Yes, but what can I do? What can I say? I’m simply afraid I won’t be able to do anything I ever thought I could, and so I yearn for someone to push me there, to motivate, inspire, remind. Maybe I’m afraid of becoming my mother, still sitting there, waiting for something, someone, to come. I’m afraid I’ll forget what it is I’m waiting for. I’m afraid to forget.

How did this evolve from lack of concentration? Wandering, rambling, completely independent mind. I shouldn’t begrudge it’s lack of focus. In a way, its out of focus, blurry perspective of the world keeps me better in focus, aware that I need to concentrate. I suppose I should have written this in my journal rather than here. That would have been wisest. But it would also have gone against the one thing I hold on to the most: that indescribable, incalculable, unstoppable need to not be forgotten, to not become invisible, ordinary, unoriginal, indistinct. I don’t know what else to do. If I could, I would completely ignore all the work I must do, all the papers, assignments, chores, everything, and just focus on the outside, on writing, on the words and the paper and the pencil. I would focus on me. Would that help? Yet, I can’t drop any of those things, because then I would have nothing left for me when I turn back to go inside.

So I guess I’ll never know the answer to any of these questions. Shame.

I do have a lot more that I want to ramble about, but obviously you don’t have all day to spend reading me. Whining, I suppose you could call it. Maybe I’ll have another post like this later, maybe. I don’t know. As I do on all posts of this nature, I congratulate you for your patience and fortitude. Even if you can relate to this, it is still arduous to read a lot of something with little or no entertainment value.

There will be poetry sometime after this post. I have been writing a bit, I have some poems available for posting, but I don’t think they are either good enough, or even appropriate for posting. There is always some little detail in them that prevents me from posting them. I apologize for that. I am a very nitpicky writer. And a garrulous one, as well. I am also attempting to undertake a sort of renovation of my book, trying to fill in the gaps to make it more of a story, perhaps even continue on in the plot from where I left off. It’s been around six months since last I added onto it, after all. I feel like I have neglected it. So, I’m going to try to pick it back up. This may reduce the amount of poetry I write, not that I’ve been writing all that much lately. That is, of course, if I start writing again. I’ve been having some computer time issues with my mom. It’s all very frustrating for me, but not anyone else. Of course.

So, for now, I’m done spewing my word vomit, all of which belongs in a journal. Most definitely belongs in a journal. Treat it nicely in your minds.

Impossible?

There's something almost impossible sounding about saying "I'm writing a book." That's a lot of words, after all. A lot. And not only do you have to have those words in your head, you have to be able to wield them, channel them, and make them sound like they fit together, interlocking puzzle pieces designed as if by Fate. But more than that, you need to have the ideas in your mind, some idea, whether it be formless or highly defined and outlined. Perhaps that's why I've been working on my book for over a year now. I haven't got enough experience in life and people to fill an entire book just yet. Though, there are authors who take two years, or more, to write a book. I don't know.

I like to say that I'm about three-quarters done with my book. "The Leaves of Autumn" I've named it. I even have a sequel planned out, almost planned, I have an outline in my mind of what I want to say in it, I think I even have a title. But first I have to finish my book.

They say a good-sized, 200-page book is about 55,000 words. Something like that, I think. My book is about 42,000. Yeah. Wow. That's a lot of words. Considering, at the end of the last sentence I'd only written just over 200 words. You see?

It's daunting, to say the least. But the idea of finishing my book, that doesn't scare me. I know I can, if not immediately. What I'm worried about is what I do when I'm done with it. Do I print it out for myself, self-publish it, or try and get it published by someone else? Do I have a friend edit it, edit it myself, let close relatives or friends read it, hoard it all to myself? I'm terrified of what I will do when I'm done with it. Because that will be a huge, long, consistent, constant phase of my life. For the past two years, all I've really wanted to write on was my book. Though I've abandoned it periodically to write short stories, to write poems, to write nothing at all, I've still come back to it. But what happens when I haven't got that to come back to? When I have to start all over again? I've never written anything as long as that. Never. It was the first time I ever finished a story, or extended one this much; it marked the beginning of the times when I could finish a story. Up until then, when I really began writing my book, I'd never even written poems beyond five or seven stanzas. I couldn't go that distance, in my words, on paper. I didn't have the patience, I didn't have the experience, I didn't have the time to want to perservere. I can't tell how many stories I opted to make one chapter when they could likely have gone on for ages, if I'd had the desire.

But perhaps I simply hadn't read enough books, hadn't done enough things, hadn't seen enough in my life, thought enough, experienced enough, to be able to write. By now, I feel as though I've experienced the entire range of emotions, truly experienced them, to be able to write them more comfortably. Now I don't have to be as afraid of messing up a character's reaction to something, because now I'm more aware of how to feel and react myself. I've observed people over the years, learning how they interact and act and move and live. Perhaps, I simply hadn't observed enough.

Then I stop and wonder, have I still not observed enough? Do I only think I know how to make my characters live? Is it only a false sense of wisdom that drives my writing?

And what will I do, if when I finish my book, people read it, and it simply isn't as good as I ever thought it was, as I ever thought it could be, as they thought it might be. What if it isn't believable, or realistic, or seeable. What if my characters are silly, pointless, fake? And what if it's obvious - that I don't know what I'm talking about? Do I?

I don't know. I honestly don't know, and I'm afraid to find out.

So . . .

Today, I'm not so much the bouncy happy. I think you could call it calm, quiet happy. Content happy, you know?

I didn't get to bed until about a quarter to 4 this morning. That is sadly how I go.

Every day of this break, this extended weekend, I have woken up about an hour later than the day before. 11 o'clock on Saturday, 12 on Sunday, and 1 o'clock today. But that's okay. I'm not going to complain. I enjoy this, lazy and languorous waking up without hurry on a day with nothing to do but write and read and shower. I love it. It's very relaxing.

I cannot remember what I dreamt about last night, it's all very fuzzy. But I think it was a good dream, I honestly do. Something to the effect of me not being alone. That's a nice feeling. I do so hate to be alone, but that isn't something I can remedy in the immediate future. And even if I could, I doubt my mother would appreciate it much. :D

So, I really haven't felt like I've written poetry worth reading in ages. I'm trying to get back into that particular rhythm, but it's difficult. Mostly because the last time I left off writing poetry, I was in the worst of moods. Now that I feel so high, so in the clouds, I have to reevaluate that pacing, that pattern of words. I need to recalibrate my meter and rhyme, find different, newer, and (simply for the length of time it's been since I've used them) strange words to write with. I haven't had to attempt to explain this feeling in what feels like years, though I'm sure it's been only months. In all actuality, it scares me a little. Those words are unfamiliar to my mind at this time, I've not used them. I haven't measured them, weighed their worth, crawled into their syllables to find their spirit. I think it will take some effort, on my part, and some getting used to again, before I can be comfortable with them.

But I won't despair. I won't talk of that, or I will worry, and worrying is the worst thing to do.

Did I ever mention that I never, not once in all the time I dated him, mention J. in my journal? Not even once. Not in passing, not casually, not at all. Now, that's a scary thought. I'm not surprised, and yet I am. I've mentioned M. and U., I've definitely mentioned C., but never did I talk about J. And was the only one I felt like I actually got close to, he was the one I came as close physically (however little that was) and emotionally as I did. Was he really that unimportant in my life? I mean, I can remember him, those memories are engrained into my brain, my heart, but was he really not that important to me at the time? Did I care so little? Or was I afraid someone would read my journal, afraid he would read my journal? I really, sincerely hope it is the latter excuse. But I honestly don't know. I'm afraid to admit it, but what if it is the former, that he really wasn't so important? And if I admit that, it almost feels like I'm defacing him memory, like I'm . . . I can't find the word. It's like, if I admit that he didn't mean anything to me, I'm losing something of myself, and completely ruining the guy I remember everyday of my life. I'm saying he was nothing, his death meant nothing to me, he had no impression on my life and no real purpose if he didn't at least die with my love. God, did I even love him?! FUck. I need to get off this subject. It's not the right time, not the right place, and not the right frame of mind, to be thinking on it. I'll just make myself cry if I do, I know this.

It's too confusing. I don't want to think about it, I refuse to. That will definitely damper my mood. And I so very much want to cling to this mood, this euphoria, what little is left of it.

Of course, now it's not even that happy mood, it feels more contemplative. Damn. That is inconvenient. *sighs* I suppose these things never last, so ephemeral.

As my eyes begin to tear, I will leave you. This will be the end of this post, and I will go write something. Something happy, I have to. I must. *takes deep breath, tries to breathe*

A lot of Lifehouse songs today, aren't there? And those others, well, just randomly mixed in. No particular importance, really. Enjoy, if you listen to the songs I set out. I know those last ones are more of the teenage girl caliber, but oh well. Can't please everyone all the time.
"Breathing" - Lifehouse
"From where you are" - Lifehouse
"Give me your eyes" - Brandon Heath
"Hanging by a moment" - Lifehouse
"Tangled up in me" - Skye Sweetnam
"Slow Down" - Aly & Aj
"Say Okay" - Vanessa Hudgens

Here I am . . .

Wasting time and sleep again. And for no reason at all.

Just because I want to hear that song, over and again. Over and over and over again.

"Until you loved me"

I like that song. Especially at about 2:31 where he does that guitar thing, it makes me smile. Every time. I'm such a dork. I know this.

I talked with L. for a while tonight, about four and a half hours. We've figured out a username for when we post our story, and also a title for the story. *grins* I'm glad. Now that we have that over with, we can get to more important things. Like, how many times, precisely, her character should hit the guy she's supposed to like? *laughs* I know, I know.

She did get me to apply to another college tonight, though. It took a surprisingly short amount of time to do so, and I mean, really short amount of time. About ten minutes. Tops. It was scary, how easy it was to do.

I've realized, tonight, that I haven't exactly posted any entries on this blog with actual thinking in them. My posts have sort of revolved around music, haven't they? *sighs* That is an issue. I made this blog originally so that I could talk, if only through a keyboard, and only to myself. But I haven't been doing that. I haven't at all.

In my euphoria these past couple of days, I think, I've needed less words to describe my emotions, how I've been feeling. And my music has simply supplied that extra bit that I haven't had time, in all my bouncing and smiling, to write out. Huh. Inconvenient to write. Never thought that would happen.

Writing on my stories, my book and new short story with L., has stolen those words which never seemed to stop for me. I have an outlet, something I've always needed. I put so much of myself into my stories, I don't think anyone ever realizes just how much. They are me, my heart and life, my quirks and thoughts. It's almost pathetic. I don't have the best imagination, it's all supplied by my own life. But then, if that isn't what I'm supposed to be doing, where does the saying "Write what you know." come from? *sighs* Loops and twists, such a pretzel.

It's almost three o'clock. I'm very tired, and my neck hurts. My fingers will start to tingle if I type much more. I know this. I can't type for so many hours and not be repaid with numb fingers and a crooked neck.

Wait, there they go now. Tingling on me. Of course.

I suppose I should sleep, then. Sleep, now. Sleep.

I'm trying to convince myself.

. . . .

It's not working. But at least if I get off of here, I will at least have a chance at it.

So, good night. Sweet dreams and all of that. I'll try not to be so featherbrained and helium-filled bouncy-ness. It's hard when I'm feeling so great, I want to enjoy it, but I know it's difficult to follow when I'm bouncing around the room without stopping to rest on one topic long enough to think. :D

Good night. Thank you for listening. It's nice. *pats computer screen affectionately*

Lol. See? I can still be an idiot if I want to . . .

He he.

I didn't sleep as well last night, but that's okay. I had a very amusing conversation with C. Sometimes, the things he says, I just wish I could share it all on here. You'd love him too.

I've been writing this story for HPFF, I don't know if I mentioned. It's a partial collaboration with L., though I'm not letting her get in too much feedback. She's just good for those crazy ideas I'd never think about. I have about three chapters written, at somewhere around five pages each, and I'm loving it. People at school have read it and all declared that it's funny. *grins* Or hilarious, or priceless, or excellent, but you get the picture. Lol. Much ego-stroking going on at my school. *laughs*

Whenever one person reads it, someone else near them is always like "What's that?" and has to read it, so in my network, plenty have read it. Lol. It's a good feeling, I think. And it's always a great feeling to write something so hilarious; it puts you in a great mood. In my opinion, everyone everywhere should always write funny stuff, that way everyone would be happy. Not only do you get a good feeling from reading happy stuff, you get a good feeling from writing it too. Not that every other piece of the written word that isn't happy or funny isn't good. Lol. I'm just saying, for a good mood.

I love all kinds of work, I'm not that way, that kind of prejudiced. But anyway, I'm off topic. A lot.

Where was I? I can't remember.

One girl in my Latin class who read my story said only one thing. "She's definitely in love with Sirius." One of the characters in the story. *grins* How on earth could she tell? Lol. I don't know. I say that there is always some level of infatuation between an author and their characters. Like, I love all my guys, they're all based on the sweeties in my life. Just like all my girls are based on me, that way, no matter what, I always get the guy. Lol. Just kidding, but seriously. *laughs*

I'm in a fabulous mood. Have been since this weekend began. It's beautiful and wonderful and I'm absolutely loving it. I wonder how long it will last?

Hmm. I hope forever. I love this carefree feeling. It's the best thing in the world, next to chocolate and your favorite book. I wish this upon everyone. I could almost dance and skip around my room right now. I don't even know why I'm feeling like this. But who would question the Logic at a moment like this?

Ha! Not me.

Sweet dreams. I'll be smiling, you better be laughing, and let's all be dreaming.

:D

Be Okay - Ingrid Michaelson

Random thought.

How many great poets of the past were not alone, in the end?

Very few that are my favorites, is all I have to say.

Those Eyes

Well, here it is. My story. I wouldn't feel comfortable posting it anywhere else. This one has a more personal element to it, more than the others I've written, or more obvious anyway. This story stems off of a dream I've had before. An imagined scene playing over in my memory, filling me with something I haven't begun to interpret. Finally, it finds release upon this wearied paper.

Those Eyes

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his eyes ripe with concern and something intangible, lurking behind their dark brown façade.

“I’m tired, I feel pulled in a hundred different directions (made worse by sheer distance), and my heart hurts, so much.” She finished, her clenched fist pressed to the part of her chest where her heart lay, beating inadequately, leaving her hands and body cold in the summer heat.

He flinched imperceptibly, taking in the shadows that seemed etched into the smooth skin just below her pale eyes. He felt his hand twitch as he tried not to clench it into a fist. This is my fault, isn’t it? He thought to himself. Somehow, he’d known this would happen, all those long months ago. As she turned her head away he silently condemned himself for being so thoughtless, so selfish. He could have prevented this, had he wanted to, had he even thought to try.

Fighting the urge to lean in closer and read the answer in her eyes, he asked her quietly, “Did you have anything in particular planned, for while you were here?”

She looked back at him slowly. “Not really. I was just going to stop here for the night, try to get some sleep, if I could.” She looked down at her lap, and for once he felt ready to damn the thick eyelashes framing her eyes. He had never felt so helpless, he was sure. All those times before, when his life had felt so completely out of his control, didn’t come close to this feeling of powerlessness raging within him. Had that really been him, all those long months ago? Had he really been the one to say those hateful words?

“You shouldn’t rely on me. It isn’t a wise thing to do. I can’t be there for you, not in the way you want me to be.”

How could he not have seen what was happening before his very eyes?

As he started thanking whatever power was out there for leading her to cross his path tonight, for letting him find her despite all the odds against him, she sighed.

“Don’t blame yourself. That’s only too easy to do, I know. But even if you had been there for me,” he winced at the words she used, free of the rancor and bitterness to which she had justifiable rights to, “nothing much would have changed. We’d still be where we are today.”

“You know that’s not true,” he answered stiffly, disgusted with himself.

She lifted her eyes, slightly startled, and looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. He felt frozen, appalled at what a single year had done to her, horrified with himself. The circles under her eyes were more pronounced from this angle, darker. Their bruise-like, purplish tinge surrounded them completely, encircled those eyes he adored so much. His heart stopped beating momentarily as he realized that eyes like that could only be found, could only belong, in a hospital bed, waiting for sickness to overwhelm, and death to come.

What had he done?

For a second she gazed at him like this, entirely innocent of the pain she was opening him up to. Then she stood, stepping away from the wide bench. With light feet she crossed the soft grass, giving him fresh heartache as he watched her, remembering how closely her eyes had matched that brilliant, vibrant grass. Halfway to the wide oak, she stumbled. As she fell forward she caught herself with her hands and twisted around, landing with a resigned sigh on her back before she raised herself up into a sprawled, sitting position. She caught his gaze with a sudden flash of anguish, and suddenly there were tears in her worn, frustrated eyes.

Already bounding off the bench, he half-ran to stand before her. He helped her up, grasping her cold hands in his own, and said angrily, “This is my fault.” And then she was collapsing into him, held securely within his embrace, both of his arms wrapped firmly around her shoulders and back. Leaning into his chest she inhaled, closed her eyes. She tried to memorize this moment, to imprint onto her heart this feeling of love and concern and warmth all wrapped up in one man.

“Why couldn’t you have told me?” He asked her, giving a huge, gusting sigh. All those nights she had lain awake, all those tears she’d cried alone. His heart gasped at the pain, stumbled beneath the weight of the guilt that he felt.

“It wouldn’t have been fair.”

Pulling back, he lifted her face in his palm, letting his thumb linger just beneath her shadowed eyes. “No,” he whispered, “this isn’t fair. Can’t you see what this does to me?”

Blinking back tears, she twisted her face self-deprecatingly and looked away at the evening sky. “What else was I to do? I couldn’t put that on you. It wasn’t your burden.”

Heart heavy with shame, buried his face in her hair. “It was. It is.”

“No,” she let out on a strangled sob, and then pulled away from him, struggling ineffectually to break out of his grasp. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He asked her, agonized, tightening his arms around her. His heart wrenched from his chest when she continued to struggle desperately, his lungs seemed to shrink, his throat close up.

“I won’t trap you. I won’t. Don’t stay.” Her face crumpled then, tears flooding her eyes in an endless stream.

He placed his hand at the base of her head and looked into her eyes, his own blazing with intensity. Then he said forcefully, stubbornly, “No. I won’t.” They stared at each other for a long moment, lost to the world, each one searching the other’s depths to find the answer, the will. Finally, all the tension fled from her body, the struggle went out like a star at dawn, and she sank into him, still crying. She tucked her head into the hollow between his collar bone and neck, her fingers clinging to his back. He held her close to him, as gently as though she would shatter at the slightest breeze, and breathed into her ear, “I’m not going anywhere, not anymore.” He shook his head, knowing she would feel the movement. Then he clenched his jaw, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

How many times had he screwed up with her before? Yet each time, she’d come back. Unaware of what kind of mess she was gravitating towards. Unbelievably, she’d come back to him, despite his endless warnings. But he’d screwed up one time too many, let himself think she would always be there, would always come back. She hadn’t. Would she stay this time?

His heart sighed.

He closed his eyes, brown eyes swimming in thankfulness and wonder. She had come home, inexplicably. Of course, he wouldn’t lie to himself and believe that this place was her home. No, he was her home. These arms that had waited years just to hold her, this heart that hadn’t beat until the moment he first heard her voice. Nothing had ever felt more right, not in all his life.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. He would take care of her.

He wouldn’t have believed it before he met her, would have discarded the idea as fallacy, but until she had opened his eyes and brought the sun back to his world, he hadn’t even begun to live. His life had started right here, with her.

She was his sun, the light by which he wrote, the beam that guided him through the rocks, his ballast in a raging sea.

He couldn’t have done half the things he had if not for her. His heart wouldn’t be whole, wouldn’t be beating, if not for her.

She sighed and pressed closer. He opened his eyes and looked at the leaves above them, listened as they danced in the wind. What was she thinking, in this moment? He tightened his arms again, reveling in the way her body seemed to fit inside his, the way it seemed to wrap itself around him perfectly. There was no feeling like it.

She looked up, then, leaning her head on his shoulder, eyes still wet. “I should be going now. I need to find a hotel, for the night,” she said in a small voice, sighing at the end. His heart seized and skipped a beat. He couldn’t let her leave him so soon.

Touching the hair at her temple, focusing on the smooth strands, he asked tentatively, “Why not stay with me?”

Her breath caught, and he glanced quickly into her eyes. There was a frown on her face, scrutinizing him. When she found what she’d needed, she said one word: “Okay.”

Something blew through his chest, filled his lungs to bursting, carried his heart away. Her word, her voice, stole every particle of him that kept his soul bound within his body. He felt his chest expand, pride and incalculable joy engulfed him entirely. Feeling humbled that she would choose to give him another chance, however small, he closed his eyes and set his forehead against hers.

Smiling, he answered her with one word, brimming with a thousand untold emotions: “Okay.”

And it was.

He would hold her, tonight, enfold her into his body. He would measure his heartbeats to the sound of her breathing. He would keep her safe, protect her from the shadows lurking behind the stars. He would fill those empty spaces.

And he would fall asleep with her, knowing, for the first time in his damned life, that there really is something to look forward to, beyond the night.

Knowing, in the morning, there’ll be hope within her eyes.

finite.