For those who are interested, I've started another blog at http://theshipwreckinmyhead.blogspot.com
I won't be getting rid of this blog, but I doubt I'll continue it. This has been a fun experiment, but now that I know what I'm doing more, I'd like a do-over. Thank you, and keep writing.
-- Ryan, aka Percival T. Honeybee
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Twelve Days of Summer
June 12th:
Sometimes I think we're all trying to convert each other to our own personal religion. A religion of opinions.
June 11th:
The people in the ads sway their hips in time to the music on my iPod, as if they were made for each other.
June 10th
My firehose of a shower made my face numb as millions of droplets roamed up and down my face.
June 9th
I keep setting alarm clocks even though there's no reason. School aftertaste. Happy birthday to me.
June 8th
Discouragement just can't keep his hands off me.
June 7th
I know that tobacco kills you slowly, but love never had that warning label. Anyway, I'm sure I'll think of something. I always do.
June 6th
If minds were houses, mine would be the Weasley house: worn out, crooked, and held up by magic.
June 5th
A problem's not a problem if you refuse to acknowledge it, right?
June 4th
You don't know how precious you are. How could you know? They never told you how much they would miss you.
June 3rd
I think part of the makings of a good kiss is the sound your lips make when they pull apart. That little note of sweetness. If you don't have that, if the kiss is soundless, then it's almost like it didn't happen; it's easily forgotten.
June 2nd
Every time I get a bad memory, I physically shudder. One of these days, someone's bound to notice.
June 1st
Sometimes I wonder if I know anything about anything. I'm incredibly under qualified for everything, and I feel this overwhelming urge to be perfect in an instant. Excuse me while I go beat my inner critic with a stick.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Welcome to Paris
The first time I met Paris, I was on my way to Italy with nothing but a typewriter in a briefcase and a pair of blinders that my English teachers gave me. I never took them off, for fear of what getting lost would mean.
And then one day, a boy who knew a lot about nothing told me that Paris had made him feel something, and that if I ever wanted that typewriter to click, it was worth a visit--not just for the typewriters sake, but for my own, and every day I would ever live. I listened, and took the blinders off.
The first day I was in Paris, I was nothing but bread crumbs in the squares of the towering monuments.
Is this even Paris? Surely there's a mistake.
I checked and re-checked my map, thinking of the blinders I left on the country road to get there. Tightening my scarf around my vulnerable neck, I set out on the streets, determined to find what Paris could teach me.
I didn't speak the language. I'd never heard anything like it. And even though I didn't understand it, the words were so beautiful. The day I heard them speak was the day I forgot my briefcase at my hotel room.
The next day, I came upon a man who was painting with words. A group followed him with their own easels, like the masses following Jesus. But the man was not Jesus.
He swore, he tossed easels into the gutter, and shouted in the faces of the tourists as they fled to their brochure destinations. I watched the scene with fascination, because the man looked no different from any other homeless artist surviving on nothing but the merit of their paintbrushes. But what I didn't know is that this artist wasn't judged by his paintbrushes, but by the world he saw when he lived off them.
I kept to the back of the crowd, scribbling notes on my arm with a free ballpoint pen I got from a college fair. The first day of the vagabond's lessons was the day I decided to trade my scarf for a notebook.
I took pictures, I painted, I wrote, I listened to every word the group let loose. There was no subject that couldn't be touched, because in life there is no "inappropriate", and this was a class about living.
And one day, I forgot my easel on the rim of the fountain where we always gathered. It was the closest I had ever dared get to the others; so close, I could hear them breathe their poetry. I rushed back to find my easel and to my surprise, I found that the others were gathered in a circle, holding it as tenderly as a mother, soaking in the harsh marks and the clashing colors, then passing it on.
I held my breath as the easel came to the hands of the master. He adjusted his cheap glasses and grunted, flipping my painting of the Eiffel tower over as if he was expecting more to it.
"Percival!"
His shout carried across the courtyard.
"Yes?"
I approached the group and stood with them. The vagabond handed back my painting, smiled, then said,
"Welcome to Paris."
And then one day, a boy who knew a lot about nothing told me that Paris had made him feel something, and that if I ever wanted that typewriter to click, it was worth a visit--not just for the typewriters sake, but for my own, and every day I would ever live. I listened, and took the blinders off.
The first day I was in Paris, I was nothing but bread crumbs in the squares of the towering monuments.
Is this even Paris? Surely there's a mistake.
I checked and re-checked my map, thinking of the blinders I left on the country road to get there. Tightening my scarf around my vulnerable neck, I set out on the streets, determined to find what Paris could teach me.
I didn't speak the language. I'd never heard anything like it. And even though I didn't understand it, the words were so beautiful. The day I heard them speak was the day I forgot my briefcase at my hotel room.
The next day, I came upon a man who was painting with words. A group followed him with their own easels, like the masses following Jesus. But the man was not Jesus.
He swore, he tossed easels into the gutter, and shouted in the faces of the tourists as they fled to their brochure destinations. I watched the scene with fascination, because the man looked no different from any other homeless artist surviving on nothing but the merit of their paintbrushes. But what I didn't know is that this artist wasn't judged by his paintbrushes, but by the world he saw when he lived off them.
I kept to the back of the crowd, scribbling notes on my arm with a free ballpoint pen I got from a college fair. The first day of the vagabond's lessons was the day I decided to trade my scarf for a notebook.
I took pictures, I painted, I wrote, I listened to every word the group let loose. There was no subject that couldn't be touched, because in life there is no "inappropriate", and this was a class about living.
And one day, I forgot my easel on the rim of the fountain where we always gathered. It was the closest I had ever dared get to the others; so close, I could hear them breathe their poetry. I rushed back to find my easel and to my surprise, I found that the others were gathered in a circle, holding it as tenderly as a mother, soaking in the harsh marks and the clashing colors, then passing it on.
I held my breath as the easel came to the hands of the master. He adjusted his cheap glasses and grunted, flipping my painting of the Eiffel tower over as if he was expecting more to it.
"Percival!"
His shout carried across the courtyard.
"Yes?"
I approached the group and stood with them. The vagabond handed back my painting, smiled, then said,
"Welcome to Paris."
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Why I Hate the Phantom, or some kind of metaphor, or whatever
There's a matter I need to handle, before the situation gets any worse.
What is love? What is love? It's been defined so often that everyone with a pen thinks they know.
I know this post is titled why I hate the Phantom, but I lied. I'm going to talk about love.
First of all, you need to make it to Paris.
I made it to Paris. Yeah, your home town. I took it like a sucker punch to the gut. You had something to say to me, one last thing to say after all the times I tore you down. With my mouth closed in a tight line, I took it as metaphor after metaphor pounded at my sandcastle walls. My hard shell softened; I started to forgive.
"You betrayed me." I said, keeping a tight fist on my anger because it was the only rope keeping me from falling. "You closed the door on me and I'm done with you."
I think you understood, because you stared at me with so much sadness, such staggering tenderness that the image of your face now haunts the darkness in my eyelids. But my venom didn't stop you. To this day, I think you were just trying to get me to understand your reasons.
Have you ever loved someone so much, you can feel it in your bones? You feel it in the joints of your elbows, up your arms and down your spine. Like you were meant to go together. I guess that's what you felt for her.
But really, how different are we? After all, we're both doomed to want something that doesn't want us back. I don't want to be like you, and I don't want to be reminded of you, but it's hard to leave you behind when I see your face in the artists on the street. In the writers and their poems. In the music and the lyrics. Paris, Paris, Paris.
And to the people of the world, the Phantom's real freaking name is Erik.
I read the book version once, and in it, the Phantom dies of a broken heart. In the movie, I'd like to think his heart was shattered like those mirrors. One hit for when she stopped listening. One hit for the time they kissed. One hit for the friendship that died. I flinch every time he takes a swing.
Your thoughts taste like chocolate, but the photographs and memories have the aftertaste of poison. I guess that's why they call this feeling bittersweet.
She loved you, but she feared you. Phantom, there's no fear in true love. You go forward, holding nothing back, even though it's scary--you go forward because you don't care. You don't care that everything you do is in permanent ink now. It's a risk, an airplane you have to dive out of. Who cares if there's a parachute?
I'm done with using people as a means to an end. With love, you're silent together and that's okay. It's okay to sit still. Love doesn't want or fear anything. Love is in the selfless mothers and fathers. Love is bleeding so someone can walk away untouched.
But then again, you did let her go in the end, so I guess that counts for something.
P.S. Raoul is a bag of crap.
What is love? What is love? It's been defined so often that everyone with a pen thinks they know.
I know this post is titled why I hate the Phantom, but I lied. I'm going to talk about love.
First of all, you need to make it to Paris.
I made it to Paris. Yeah, your home town. I took it like a sucker punch to the gut. You had something to say to me, one last thing to say after all the times I tore you down. With my mouth closed in a tight line, I took it as metaphor after metaphor pounded at my sandcastle walls. My hard shell softened; I started to forgive.
"You betrayed me." I said, keeping a tight fist on my anger because it was the only rope keeping me from falling. "You closed the door on me and I'm done with you."
I think you understood, because you stared at me with so much sadness, such staggering tenderness that the image of your face now haunts the darkness in my eyelids. But my venom didn't stop you. To this day, I think you were just trying to get me to understand your reasons.
Have you ever loved someone so much, you can feel it in your bones? You feel it in the joints of your elbows, up your arms and down your spine. Like you were meant to go together. I guess that's what you felt for her.
But really, how different are we? After all, we're both doomed to want something that doesn't want us back. I don't want to be like you, and I don't want to be reminded of you, but it's hard to leave you behind when I see your face in the artists on the street. In the writers and their poems. In the music and the lyrics. Paris, Paris, Paris.
And to the people of the world, the Phantom's real freaking name is Erik.
I read the book version once, and in it, the Phantom dies of a broken heart. In the movie, I'd like to think his heart was shattered like those mirrors. One hit for when she stopped listening. One hit for the time they kissed. One hit for the friendship that died. I flinch every time he takes a swing.
Your thoughts taste like chocolate, but the photographs and memories have the aftertaste of poison. I guess that's why they call this feeling bittersweet.
She loved you, but she feared you. Phantom, there's no fear in true love. You go forward, holding nothing back, even though it's scary--you go forward because you don't care. You don't care that everything you do is in permanent ink now. It's a risk, an airplane you have to dive out of. Who cares if there's a parachute?
I'm done with using people as a means to an end. With love, you're silent together and that's okay. It's okay to sit still. Love doesn't want or fear anything. Love is in the selfless mothers and fathers. Love is bleeding so someone can walk away untouched.
But then again, you did let her go in the end, so I guess that counts for something.
P.S. Raoul is a bag of crap.
Let's Not Pretend
Where should we start? If you really knew me sounds good. Alright, so, if you really knew me, you'd know that in this class, I feel like a scientist in a sea of artists. I feel like my skills are inadequate, and sometimes that's discouraging, but then I remember that poster in Shep's room that says, "Whether you think you can or can't, you're right."
I think I can. I think I can.
-- Thomas the train. I never watched that show.
If you really knew me, you'd know that I have more secrets than area 51, and I don't normally share things just because you asked. You would know that the secrets I keep aren't secrets for good reasons--I'm just afraid to trust. Withholding information makes me feel powerful.
You would know that my parents make me doubt myself, but this class has been helping with that. You can be poor and still be happy.
I'm deathly afraid of spiders and the dark, and I'm good at keeping calm in bad situations, unless those situations involve spiders or the dark.
The say something that no one else knows about you game makes me nervous. I've never had a boyfriend, and I've never had a first kiss, and I'm perfectly secure about it.
I can tie a cherry stem in a knot using nothing but my tongue, and every time I do it my mom makes some remark about being a good kisser. Gosh dang it, Mom.
I'm sorry for anyone who has had me in carpool, because I don't say much. I could make excuses about how I can't think straight in the morning (which is true), but really it's because sometimes I really don't know what to say, or how to say it. And when I do say it out loud, it's not always the line I had in my head, which was perfectly edited and actually made sense.
I daydream a lot, and I'm trying to work on that. Working on not doing it, I mean. At least, not in public. I've failed miserably.
I'm a huge nerd. I know people say that about themselves, but I mean it. Huge. And more than anything, I just want a friend I can do a fangirl squee with.
I love art and writing, and I have a new found love of poetry. I didn't understand what it could be until this year, but now that I know, my life will never be the same. I just wish I could write it. Writing, stripped of structure, yet it all has a pattern. I'm an autistic writer, trying to figure out how to do all these things using rules. I'm drowning in a sea of guidelines.
Wilson.
I feel like an alien in the world. I don't always understand the weird customs humans have. I have sanity issues. I talk to voices in my head,. It's actually quite healthy.
This whole "secret sharing" thing is actually a lot more therapeutic than I gave it credit for.
-- #Ryan out
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Possible Side Effects
Active Ingredient ................................................... doubt, 10mg
Purpose ................................................................ to fall out of love
Uses
* Relieves heartbreak associated with the lack of reciprocation.
* Prevents heartbreak associated with the possibility of the lack of reciprocation.
Warnings
Allergy Alert: Do not use if you are allergic to risks.
Do not use if you have trouble with pain. Ask your doctor if you have a shortness of breath, frequent chest pain, sweating, lightheadedness, bouts depression, or crying where no one can see you. These may be signs of a serious condition.
Stop and ask a doctor if your heartbreak continues or worsens.
Directions
*Adults 12 years and older:
to relieve symptoms, swallow 1 tablet with a glass of water and get over it. To prevent heartbreak, swallow 1 tablet with a glass of water 60 minutes before meeting anyone.
* Children under 12 years, ask a doctor.
Other Information
* Read directions and warnings before use.
Inactive Ingredients
Cowardice, sadness, grudges, regrets, hope.
Questions?
If you have a question of a medical nature, please contact your pharmacist, doctor, or health care professional.
Purpose ................................................................ to fall out of love
Uses
* Relieves heartbreak associated with the lack of reciprocation.
* Prevents heartbreak associated with the possibility of the lack of reciprocation.
Warnings
Allergy Alert: Do not use if you are allergic to risks.
Do not use if you have trouble with pain. Ask your doctor if you have a shortness of breath, frequent chest pain, sweating, lightheadedness, bouts depression, or crying where no one can see you. These may be signs of a serious condition.
Stop and ask a doctor if your heartbreak continues or worsens.
Directions
*Adults 12 years and older:
to relieve symptoms, swallow 1 tablet with a glass of water and get over it. To prevent heartbreak, swallow 1 tablet with a glass of water 60 minutes before meeting anyone.
* Children under 12 years, ask a doctor.
Other Information
* Read directions and warnings before use.
Inactive Ingredients
Cowardice, sadness, grudges, regrets, hope.
Questions?
If you have a question of a medical nature, please contact your pharmacist, doctor, or health care professional.
Memories
I remember when my family only had one beat up car, and that was the one my dad would take to work. My mom and I would walk along the road that was being devoured by the forest of Maine, and we would stop at the gas station to buy Gatorade. I don't know what the deal is with my family and Gatorade. Maybe it's because Gatorade saved my dad's life in quite a literal sense.
I remember growing up with my cousin. I remember the excitement filling me up like a balloon whenever my mom said we would be having a family visit at my grandma's house. I wonder if you were as excited to see me as I was to see you. I remember last week, my mom told me that you had started taking drugs. I wonder if it's my fault that you feel so sad, because I haven't texted you for a year now.
I remember watching cartoons in the morning. I remember the sun setting over the trees at three o'clock, and not being bothered by it. I remember when I would read long into the night, physically incapable of putting the book down.
I remember back when I didn't know you, sort of. I know that I didn't know you all my life, but it feels that way.
I remember that one time when I went with a bunch of friends to Lagoon, and while we were there we met four guys that were there for a family reunion. They were the same age as us, and they lived up in Idaho. Our groups spent the entire day together. That was probably the most fun I've ever had at Lagoon. I remember being heartbroken when I had to leave them all. My mom needed help. Some day I hope that I meet them again, just because.
I remember a few nights ago. Like a criminal, I tip-toed out of the house in my pajamas, praying that my mom wouldn't hear me. All I took with me was a fuzzy blanket, and even though it was warm, my toes still froze. Despite my freezing toes, I sat under the stars, because sometimes you just need to go outside.
I hope you'll forgive me, but making memories is my favorite pastime.
I remember growing up with my cousin. I remember the excitement filling me up like a balloon whenever my mom said we would be having a family visit at my grandma's house. I wonder if you were as excited to see me as I was to see you. I remember last week, my mom told me that you had started taking drugs. I wonder if it's my fault that you feel so sad, because I haven't texted you for a year now.
I remember watching cartoons in the morning. I remember the sun setting over the trees at three o'clock, and not being bothered by it. I remember when I would read long into the night, physically incapable of putting the book down.
I remember back when I didn't know you, sort of. I know that I didn't know you all my life, but it feels that way.
I remember that one time when I went with a bunch of friends to Lagoon, and while we were there we met four guys that were there for a family reunion. They were the same age as us, and they lived up in Idaho. Our groups spent the entire day together. That was probably the most fun I've ever had at Lagoon. I remember being heartbroken when I had to leave them all. My mom needed help. Some day I hope that I meet them again, just because.
I remember a few nights ago. Like a criminal, I tip-toed out of the house in my pajamas, praying that my mom wouldn't hear me. All I took with me was a fuzzy blanket, and even though it was warm, my toes still froze. Despite my freezing toes, I sat under the stars, because sometimes you just need to go outside.
I hope you'll forgive me, but making memories is my favorite pastime.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Just Tell it to Me Straight
I couldn't explain it to them in a way they would understand. I couldn't explain why I was clenching my fists and muttering under my breath.
And every time someone tells me I look tired, I'm secretly annoyed and pleased. I'm pleased because it reminds me of you, and how you work so hard. How you sacrifice sleep for your dreams.
And every time I think I have it, it slips through my fingers again. Maybe this time I'll remember not to use a garbage can to catch those words with. Maybe this time I'll let those words pile up on a paper instead of a landfill.
And every time someone tells me I look tired, I'm secretly annoyed and pleased. I'm pleased because it reminds me of you, and how you work so hard. How you sacrifice sleep for your dreams.
And every time I think I have it, it slips through my fingers again. Maybe this time I'll remember not to use a garbage can to catch those words with. Maybe this time I'll let those words pile up on a paper instead of a landfill.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
How to Lockpick
I tried to teach my dad how to pick a lock once. He was curious about it; he thought it was a lost art, like knitting, and figured that if anyone could learn how to do it, he could.
So I gave him a lock, gave him a pick (a snake pick to be exact), and gave him these instructions:
1. You have no eyes inside the lock. It must be done with feeling.
2. If you get too tense, you will never open it.
3. The art of picking a lock is best learned with familiarity, and with watching others.
My dad nodded, pretending to listen.
"Now you listen here, young man, " I wanted to say, "I've already been there. I know what you're going to do; you're gonna force it to open. That's how you handle everything." But I held my tongue.
And he went to work. He tried and tried and tried. After four hours, he looked at me with a pained expression, as if the lock had slapped him.
"What am I doing wrong?"
I took the lock in my hands. It was warm to the touch--too warm. I slid the pick in to feel the pins, and they complained with every movement, aching from the abuse they had just gone through.
"You didn't listen." I said, and proceeded to open the lock so he could see. "I'm disappointed in you."
My dad's strength had finally failed him.
I too had learned the hard way. With tears in my eyes, I asked why. Why wasn't this working? I tried my best and learned all I could, so why was this happening?
And then, when my mind was focused on the voices in the other room, when my guard was down, something clicked. The lock opened as easily as if I was using a key. I stared at the lock, trying to comprehend what just happened. After that moment, I tried it again and again with success. I've been opening locks ever since.
So I gave him a lock, gave him a pick (a snake pick to be exact), and gave him these instructions:
1. You have no eyes inside the lock. It must be done with feeling.
2. If you get too tense, you will never open it.
3. The art of picking a lock is best learned with familiarity, and with watching others.
My dad nodded, pretending to listen.
"Now you listen here, young man, " I wanted to say, "I've already been there. I know what you're going to do; you're gonna force it to open. That's how you handle everything." But I held my tongue.
And he went to work. He tried and tried and tried. After four hours, he looked at me with a pained expression, as if the lock had slapped him.
"What am I doing wrong?"
I took the lock in my hands. It was warm to the touch--too warm. I slid the pick in to feel the pins, and they complained with every movement, aching from the abuse they had just gone through.
"You didn't listen." I said, and proceeded to open the lock so he could see. "I'm disappointed in you."
My dad's strength had finally failed him.
I too had learned the hard way. With tears in my eyes, I asked why. Why wasn't this working? I tried my best and learned all I could, so why was this happening?
And then, when my mind was focused on the voices in the other room, when my guard was down, something clicked. The lock opened as easily as if I was using a key. I stared at the lock, trying to comprehend what just happened. After that moment, I tried it again and again with success. I've been opening locks ever since.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Truth
Freedom!
Seriously, though. I felt more limited by trying to keep secretive. There were a lot of times where I wanted to post something, but it would've given something away about who I was. Now it doesn't matter. Even though I'm feeling a little shaky, I've felt shakier.
So, Hello. My name is Ryan. My pen name is Percival T. Honeybee, and I chose a boy name because...well, for the obvious reasons. And the name is special to me. (If you have a boy name and you're a girl, you're automatically my bro. Or sis. Whatever.)
I play violin (hello Heather), and I love music.
I'm a fan of electro swing and the 1920's, and I'm loyal to my obsessions. I'm into art as well.
I want to be a novelist when I grow up, and it was a miracle that I got into this class (it's actually a funny story, but I'll leave that for another time).
I'm so pleased to meet you all. I promise I won't judge you—just keep being yourself.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Jealousy
Darling, did you know that a blue whale has a heart the size of a car?
This is without a doubt the best love poem I've ever heard. This is the kind of poem you listen to over and over, and you never get tired of it. It takes more than one sitting to absorb it.
Whenever I hear this poem, I get reminded that the human race has a lot more to it than what my mom says. Or at least I hope it does. I'm collecting hope in jars, and this is definitely going in the collection.
I love this poem because it reminds me of that part of a song, the part that gets you. The part where the harmonies combine and there's a crescendo, and it's so sweet you want it to last forever. It leaves you whispering poetic things in your head about everything. Suddenly your bedroom wall has a purpose.
I listen to this and cross my fingers that someday I'll be able to create things that tug at the heartstrings.
Pressing Leaves
A glass vase hides under a blanket so that no one will find her, smash her--take her in their bare hands and crush her because they like the the feeling of the jagged edges cutting their hands. It's a gruesome image, but it's the truth of the matter and it scares me to death.
Once again, the light is filtering through the windows. It makes me want to bite my lower lip; I want to sit there all day and watch the light fade. But in a moment my eyes are downcast, because if all good things were meant to last, then why does the light fade?
It will be there tomorrow are the words I say to console myself. I give myself a fake smile in the mirror and wish upon the stars that it'll be real soon, because it's hard to keep a sunny disposition when it's night and all you want to do is hide in that cave that took so long to carve.
Don't worry about me, though. I keep some fireflies in a bottle, and so far the glass has done its job. Those fireflies and dreams are like those leaves I picked in the mountains all those years ago--the ones that should've shriveled and died, but I learned a long time ago that you can put those leaves in a book and press them down, smash them, and abandon them. When you come back in a few weeks, they look just as they did when they were alive, only this time they'll never fade, and they're more fragile than glass.
I collected heaps upon heaps of these artifacts from nature. The hard part was keeping them from crumpling into dust. I hid them, protected them like relics of the past, like the Declaration of Independence. They were the last pieces of Autumn, and the first pieces of me.
I sit in the water longer than I need to, because sometimes it feels so good just to hear things simplified. To breathe life into my corners again. Nothing matters except the pounding water that's trickling down your scalp; they're raindrops in a more domestic setting.
Brush off the sticky notes with a flick of your wrist, because they'll still be there when you get back, and you don't need them attached to you. You don't need to be attached to them.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Grand Theft Poetry (blog edition)
Don't be afraid to look up say hello and wave. I can't remember specific thoughts or even specific conversations. Not one stands out in my memory as something significant or great. I can remember you. The way your eyes seemed to get brighter at night. You are just a memory now. That's what makes my heart hurt the most.
I thought love was when I kissed you on the forehead and you dug further into my chest. I thought love was learning that song on the piano, because it was your favorite and you, for some reason, begged to hear me sing.
White rose petals. Closed eyes. Baths. My head underwater enough for my ears to hear the sounds of the water. Sometimes I wonder if I can actually get through a day with out crying myself to sleep at night. If my nightmares will ever go away.
A lot of people have told me that I have a lot of patience. But I feel I have never had the patience for myself.I walk through this life, and maybe one day, I'll see this world for all of it's beauty instead of it's insecurities. Until then, I continue through this life listening to my head and my heart, my brain and my blood supplier. The two places where I have found happiness, the things I turned to.
I tried to push back the thoughts from my head.
But the memories pushed harder.
I guess the best poems come from the saddest moments.
When he said the thoughts in his head would eventually kill him.
I broke.
Like a sad story to a tragic movie that the ending didn't really have an ending. Just an unresolved plot line and a climax that not a single person could understand. An inception of my life that I never could figure out. I still can't.
I'm still in that half-dream, trying to adjust to the light as you pull the curtains apart and tell me to wake up. And you're going to pounce on the bed and shake me awake but I've never seen the sun.
A man goes to a doctor and requests to have a cure to his sickness. The doctor asks the man a series of questions. The man answers truthfully to some, and lies to others.I try to be patient. To understand.
But this knife in my side is starting to take it’s toll. Memories washed out by the tears threaded through my veins. Looking in a mirror that’s shattered by disappointment.
And I cut myself picking up the pieces.
When you have spent all your life preparing for this moment, you haven’t appreciated life to the point where you realize the significance of its passing.
I remember.
I felt the life sliding out of me,
like a heavy load,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon.
You looked me in the eyes.
I saw into your soul.
You told me you loved me,
Softly,
Sincerely,
The whisper of your breath on my cheek.
I believed every word that fell from your mouth.
I just didn't reciprocate.
I just didn't reciprocate.
The unknown is something you can not change. It is what makes you question yourself and others.
I'm afraid of the dark.
I'm afraid of crossing the street.
I'm afraid of time. Because I know that it will go too fast.
I'm afraid of crossing the street.
I'm afraid of time. Because I know that it will go too fast.
Someone in this world is crying right now because somewhere in this world they just lost someone and had to say goodbye. People are saying goodbye to someone they love every second of every day..
time slipped through our hands. I spent a year trying to Remember THAT Dream, but I never could figure out how the pieces fit together.I wanna have those feelings again, the ones I have in my dreams. The ones where I wake up in a cold sweat cause I'm feeling so alive.
Love is just the way I think I feel when I look at you.
Love is what I think I feel when you smile at my terrible jokesI thought love was when I kissed you on the forehead and you dug further into my chest. I thought love was learning that song on the piano, because it was your favorite and you, for some reason, begged to hear me sing.
I guess I was scared because I think I meant it, but I'm not sure you did. and I thought you did.
But the truth is, I've lost love, and I never got a copy of the recipe.
Dora Wyatt, Feathers on Fish, Gray Evasion, Little Fox Girl, Peter Mckeller, Agnes Moorehead, Trevor Powers, Sampson Rox. III, I killed JFK, Dean Wolfe, you could see me now, Geez Louise, Canyyouseeme, Words from the peak, Jackie O, Use Soap, Alis Priddy, Witch of the North... Possibly others but I've forgotten exactly. You know who you are. I told you what I stole.
Among Stars and Other Things
I often wonder about the stars and how I fit into things. I'm not a philosopher, so I wouldn't be able to tell you. Philosophers only know what they know because they ask why, and I don't question things nearly enough.
Often I wonder if there's a person out there who knows my name.
And sometimes I wonder if there's a person that can hear me talk to myself, when I'm all alone in my mind. I don't feel very alone, so there must be someone listening in on my door with a stethoscope, and they're just waiting for the right moment--the moment when I'll figure my life out.
I know I explain too much, and I know I give out too many excuses; excuses are the flyers I give out to random people on the street.
And with all the trash that's lining the street, you'd think I would've learned my lesson by now.
There's a small intake of breath. My eyes widen as I stare at the stars, the moon--everything that's beyond my reach. (They're beautiful.)
Fun fact: every year the moon gets farther away, and in time the moon will move on to bigger and better things. It won't be around, and we won't survive. Don't worry, though. We'd all be dead by then anyway.
The drop in your stomach when the ground is no longer beneath you. Your mind shakes as everything is unfolded on lawn chairs. The breath keeps flowing in and it won't come out. It won't drain. The air is suffocating you.
I once heard that the dark side of the moon has a crater pattern that looks like the iris of an eye, and if the dark side was the side that faced us, we would think differently about the moon.
I'm glad the side that faces us is the one that looks like a man's face. It makes it easier to talk to.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
A Dear John
Dear Percival,
Well, you're not very dear to me—not any more at least. I've put up with your shenanigans for years now, and I can tell you that I've had enough. It's over.
Now, don't think I'm breaking things off just because you're thinking about replacing me. Oh no. I've been considering taking a hike (metaphorically, of course) and leaving you to take care of your book collection yourself for years now.
You didn't think about my feelings when you replaced me with that grand bookcase downstairs, did you? You took all the best books and lined them up so prettily on its strong shelves. Now the books on my shelf are slanting over because there's not enough to go around.
And what's with all the junk on my shelves? Did you think it was really necessary to put a jewelry box... Actually, I like the jewelry box. But I don't like the piggy bank! Not one bit; I think it's tacky.
You never dusted me. I'm starting to get a rash in my grain because of it. Don't be surprised if you hear me sneezing in the corner.
The last straw, however, was when your mother frowned at me and considered having me replaced BECAUSE OF MY COLOR. I thought we were living in times that were relatively free of discrimination, but here we have an example of blatant racism. Equality towards all men and furniture? Wasn't that a thing?
Anyway, just wrote to say I can't do this anymore, and it would be best if we broke off our relationship cleanly and got on with our lives.
Sincerely,
Your Bookcase
About My Heart
particular.
Tick tock, time for school.
Tick tock, time to say hello.
Tick tock, let's put on a show.
Living is my favorite pastime. My personality description says I seek out sad things, but the truth is I just like to prod my heart into beating.
Tick tock, you're not allowed.
Tick tock, you're not enough.
Tick tock, you've got it rough.
And right now I'm stripped of all my rules and reasons, and I'm staring down my pen because it's a friend that betrayed me. Or maybe I betrayed my pen.
Tick tock, here's what you write.
Tick tock, don't put up a fight.
But then there's those times when I'm doubled over, clutching my belly and gasping for breath. My cheeks warm, and my eyes widen. I look at you. Staring at you, I wonder if I'd even be alive without you here.
Tick tock, this isn't right.
Tick tock, this isn't right. STOP.
Suddenly I'm reminded of a time not too long ago where everything had meaning. They tried to beat it out of me with their fluorescent lights that starve my face of color. I still remember what it felt like to be alive.
Tick tock, speak quietly.
There's some people I want to scream at--to shout in their face to get a reaction, just to see if they're alive. We're human, despite what the world says. You're human, at least.
Maybe I don't know anything.
I thank the stars every day that you exist. You're someone to rely on, because while I don't know how to say everything perfectly, you can teach me how. You have a real, human heart.
Tick thump, thump tock,
thump thump.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Five Loves
1. We met several times--more times than I can remember. Every time we met, I was in the shotgun of my mom's car. She was always driving, and we would always be going somewhere mundane. I would see you from out the window, and I would only look at you for a few seconds until I was certain that I saw all there was to see. I never liked what I saw, so I avoided looking at you. It wasn't until one cold night in December that I finally gave you the time of day. Curiosity finally killed the cat. I looked at you for a few more seconds than usual, and then I was captured--I couldn't look away. I stared. Your story made me feel alive. From then on I decided to never judge so quickly again.
2. You are a family friend, and I didn't know it until that fateful trip to that one lake in Washington. You and your family greeted me, and from then on the time spent with you became a cherished memory. I like to spend time with you, whenever I want to be reminded.
3. When I think of you, I think of that feeling you get when your favorite character in a book dies. I always knew you had a story, and that story keeps changing. Even though you make me cry, I still seek you out because we've known each other too long. I guess I like that feeling you give me, in a strange sort of way. You make me feel alive. Human, even. I always come back for more.
4. Every time I see you I want to throw something at the wall. I'm always so conflicted when we talk. You remind me of both good things and bad things. And yet, I wouldn't take back a single moment I spent with you. I remember singing in the car with you on the way to practice ACT testing. It was around October, and I was close to tears. They were conflicted tears. When I was with you, I felt like I was one with the human race. We were together in our sorrows--we were sad about the same thing. Thanks for being a story to rely on.
5. I pretend not to like you. I keep you a secret from everyone--you're the story I'll take to my grave. Even though I lie to myself and say mean things about you in my head, I don't always convince myself. We meet in secret more than we should, and every time we're almost caught it makes me feel like I just cheated death. My cheeks flush and I try to contain that joyful song in my heart; it's quicker than I gave it credit for, and so far it's been impossible to catch and keep quiet. I'll never stop loving that feeling.
Every one of you has changed me. I want you to know that.
This has been me describing my five favorite songs, five loves, and the memories attached.
1. Princess of China - Coldplay
2. Crooked Teeth - Death Cab for Cutie
3. The Scientist - Coldplay
4. Like a Song - Lenka
5. Diamonds - Steam Powered Giraffe
2. You are a family friend, and I didn't know it until that fateful trip to that one lake in Washington. You and your family greeted me, and from then on the time spent with you became a cherished memory. I like to spend time with you, whenever I want to be reminded.
3. When I think of you, I think of that feeling you get when your favorite character in a book dies. I always knew you had a story, and that story keeps changing. Even though you make me cry, I still seek you out because we've known each other too long. I guess I like that feeling you give me, in a strange sort of way. You make me feel alive. Human, even. I always come back for more.
4. Every time I see you I want to throw something at the wall. I'm always so conflicted when we talk. You remind me of both good things and bad things. And yet, I wouldn't take back a single moment I spent with you. I remember singing in the car with you on the way to practice ACT testing. It was around October, and I was close to tears. They were conflicted tears. When I was with you, I felt like I was one with the human race. We were together in our sorrows--we were sad about the same thing. Thanks for being a story to rely on.
5. I pretend not to like you. I keep you a secret from everyone--you're the story I'll take to my grave. Even though I lie to myself and say mean things about you in my head, I don't always convince myself. We meet in secret more than we should, and every time we're almost caught it makes me feel like I just cheated death. My cheeks flush and I try to contain that joyful song in my heart; it's quicker than I gave it credit for, and so far it's been impossible to catch and keep quiet. I'll never stop loving that feeling.
Every one of you has changed me. I want you to know that.
This has been me describing my five favorite songs, five loves, and the memories attached.
1. Princess of China - Coldplay
2. Crooked Teeth - Death Cab for Cutie
3. The Scientist - Coldplay
4. Like a Song - Lenka
5. Diamonds - Steam Powered Giraffe
Dear People of Earth
To the people of Earth,
I am not sorry.
We might as well get that out of the way. It's difficult for me to stay sane anyway, let alone the fact that a vast collection of intelligent beings hate me. I understand that. I would hate me too.
But I'm still not sorry.
My line of work has two sides. I'm sorry to say that you're still stuck on one end, and it's difficult to be wise when life is all you know. Not that I know everything--I'm just being obedient.
Maybe I should clarify. I'm not sorry for the people I take. I consider them lucky. I wish I could die, I wish I could stop, I wish I could rest. I'm in a sea of faces, but none of them see me, even though they all know me. I'm on the other side of a one way mirror, analyzing all you do. I'm taking notes.
But to those people who are left behind, I'm sorry. Often I wish I could say something to you, or at least let you know I'm watching your pain, but that is not allowed. It's hard not to look at you, with your weak knees and your drooping heart. The bewilderment of those left behind is enough to send anyone over the edge, and it happens again, and again, and again.
The people I like the most are the ones that aren't afraid of me, and weren't afraid of me. I like the people with stories. I like it when they understand that he who doesn't fear death dies only once. These people never regret. These are the people that keep me sane with their stories of life.
I know I sounded callous earlier, but please believe me when I say that I'm not a callous person. It is not my choice. I do not seek people out. I am merely a result.
Though it's difficult to understand, I have faith in you and the human race.
I wish you the best of luck on your journey, and I bid you farewell until we meet for that personal, final time.
--Death
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Why I Like Fear
Fear: The emotion that makes things fun. The source of thrills. A part of being alive.
Synonym: Exciting, exhilarating, terrifying
Things that make me scared (and I love it):
*Love
*Writing
*Writing about something you love
*Writing about something you love and then giving it to someone else (and then you freak out, regretting your decision but being proud of it at the same time)
*People liking my writing
*Drawing something new
*Liking the new thing I drew
*Inspiration (because I can never go back to my previous dimensions)
*Roller coasters
*Trying new things
*Turning off the lights (the dark terrifies me)
*Sharing my ideas
*People liking my ideas
*Every single person who writes things on their blog (yes, you. I read like a maniac.)
*Mr. Nelson
Synonym: Exciting, exhilarating, terrifying
Things that make me scared (and I love it):
*Love
*Writing
*Writing about something you love
*Writing about something you love and then giving it to someone else (and then you freak out, regretting your decision but being proud of it at the same time)
*People liking my writing
*Drawing something new
*Liking the new thing I drew
*Inspiration (because I can never go back to my previous dimensions)
*Roller coasters
*Trying new things
*Turning off the lights (the dark terrifies me)
*Sharing my ideas
*People liking my ideas
*Every single person who writes things on their blog (yes, you. I read like a maniac.)
*Mr. Nelson
What is Real?
re·al1
ˈrē(ə)l/
adjective
(of a substance or thing) not imitation or artificial; genuine.
"the earring was presumably real gold"
Synonyms: Genuine, authentic
I've been thinking about something for a while now--something that I think should be set straight. In a way, this post is meant for those two girls in Nelson's class all those years ago; the two girls who joined the class because they wanted to be novelists.
The art of writing a book can be learned anywhere. Most of what you learn of it is by reading, and the rest can be learned from the internet. Believe me, I've been to enough Youtube writing seminars to know. What I've learned in this class, however, is something that writers sorely need: a reason to create.
Yes, I have a thing for writing stories. It is my dream to one day write stories that will teach people about what it means to be human.
I am by no means an English lover. English class makes me cringe because they try to control everything. You can't teach people who don't care. Stop making it so obvious. They can learn all of this simply by reading, and then practicing.
But none of it will teach you how to be free, inspired and real. We as humans need real things.
We need your emotions to be real. We need to know if you're alive.
I can recite all you could possibly want to know about characterization, voice, the seven-point story structure and more, but none of it will really teach you how to write. Good writing comes from keeping things real--from speaking your mind in the most honest way possible.
And you all have taught me so much. I'm learning by reading still, but this time I'm reading something different.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Concrete and Pineapple Popsicles
My stomach muscles relax as I take a fetal position on the leather armchair. The armchair has always been wide enough for me to do this, and that is one reason why I loved it.
The memories of all those summer nights will be cherished forever. They make the top five. It was the perfect combination.
It's two o' clock in the morning, but I don't care because there's nowhere I have to be tomorrow. I can spend the entire night here, if I want.
Wide awake, I listen to the beat of the music in my ears. The tune is lively, fresh, and something I've listened to a million times. It reminds me of you.
The package in my hands crackles, and as I rip away the translucent covering, syrup clings to the popsicle in my hands like it only does on flavored ice products. It's artificial, but it makes me happy.
The first bite is hard, and it breaks away like stone. The taste is familiar--sweet. It reminds me of all those times when we sat in that armchair together and laughed. I always liked the part where it started melting best, because that meant that the next bite would come easier. It still stung my teeth, though. I learned to cherish that feeling.
Now I'm just chewing on the wooden stick left behind. I don't know why I always insisted on chewing things to splinters. Maybe it's satisfying to feel it come apart, even though the fibers often poked me.
The leftover warmth is dragging me under, and I can't help but let myself drift off while tucked in your arms. I'm usually scared of the dark, but with you this darkness is comforting--concealing, even.
I'll never let you get away from me.
P.S. I'm eating one of those popsicles as I write this.
Pictures I Stole
These are just some pictures I stole from people's blogs. I thought they were pretty.
Destiny Preach, Agnes Moorehead, Julianna Jane, Lily Ann Rose, Shania Edwards, Gray Evasion, Priscilla Belle, Sandra Reid (thinkings), Corinne Bailey Rae, Charlie L. Rose
Destiny Preach, Agnes Moorehead, Julianna Jane, Lily Ann Rose, Shania Edwards, Gray Evasion, Priscilla Belle, Sandra Reid (thinkings), Corinne Bailey Rae, Charlie L. Rose
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Trying to be Different
Really, I think it's impossible for us to really be truly different, but I did my best. Maybe this will help you be different too. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to draw The Doctor as a power ranger.
That Awkward Moment: Part 2
I pushed away from the table and stood up, my chair making an obvious squeal against the expensive wood floor. My parents paused mid-sentence, their mouths agape, and stared at me. Aunt Eudora didn't seem to notice--she was ripping apart her steak like a T-rex, sauce staining her fingers, being completely oblivious to my rigid composure.
"Is everything alright?" Mom said, sounding as if she was talking to a frightened animal. Her eyes flickered to the phone in my hand, then back at my face.
I took a couple of breaths as I thought through an escape plan. "I...I'm just gonna go to the bathroom. I'll be right back." I said. Mark rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, watching my face intently with his somber blue eyes.
Not waiting for a reply, I turned away from my mother's puckered face and did my best speed-walk towards the bathroom.
Yeah, I'm just gonna leave. Just gonna get as faaaaaar away as possible. I don't know what's going on, but I don't like it one bit. Either this Mark guy is a psychopath, or...
I shook my head. I wasn't even going to consider the other possibility--that he was telling the truth.
After weaving around a few waiters that gave me nasty looks, I found the ladies restroom and pushed the door out of the way with an angry sweep. The door rebounded, clipping my shoulder on the way back. My cry of pain echoed through the bathrooms. I froze in place and waited for any snickers of laughter, but the stalls greeted me with a pointed silence.
Sighing with relief, I went to the mirrors and rested my hands on either side of one of the sinks. The granite felt sturdy and cool beneath my sweaty fingers; it was a stable reassurance as I listened to my breath flowing in and out.
Every time I shifted my weight, my heels would drag on the wood floor and make an ugly scratching sound. I held as still as possible, killing all sound except the muted voices from outside. I ignored my disheveled appearance in the mirror. I knew I looked on edge; I didn't need that confirmed.
Without warning, the restroom door flew open and slammed against the wall with the volume of a cannon shot. I jumped a foot in the air, nearly losing my balance in my stupid heels, and put my hands up in defense. With my eyes squeezed shut, I heard a thud and a muffled curse as the door swung back and hit whoever was invading my privacy. Daring to peek, I bit my lip a little too hard when I saw who it was.
The man in the tweed jacket was now rubbing his arm with a sour expression, seeming to not realize just how much he startled me.
Thousands of questions circulated, most of them profound, but I couldn't begin to form the words. Unfortunately, only one question got through:
"What are you doing in the girl's bathroom?" I squeaked. The question sounded like something a second grader would ask. I mentally smacked myself.
Mark looked up, his expression vulnerable. As much as I wanted to dislike him, I couldn't get past his sincere eyes. They were an open book, subject to judgement--negative or otherwise.
"I need to talk to you." He said.
"Well what if I don't want to talk? What if I think you're a psychopath and should leave me alone?"
"I apologize for scaring you. I know this must seem ludicrous, but really I'm telling the truth. Just please, hear me out."
Desperation filled his voice. I wasn't able to meet his eyes, so I stared at the ground, silent. I didn't trust him--not one bit--but I supposed there wasn't any harm in at least letting him explain.
"Fine. Justify away." I said, my voice tight.
"Your name is Valerie Evans. You're eighteen years old, and you have two parents and an older brother. You have dreams of being a professional photographer, but you doubt that it will ever happen." He stated, his voice growing quieter. My cheeks warmed. How did he know about my aspirations? I kept the fact that I wanted to be a photographer a closely guarded secret.
"What does this have to do with--"
"--you have an intense fear of cockroaches," he continued, "and you love being in the sun just after a rainstorm. You think that wearing glasses without lenses is tacky, and one of your favorite memories is of a time when you were stuck inside the house during a blizzard with your family, and you all spent the entire day swapping stories, eating homemade bread, and watching The Sound of Music."
I eyed Mark carefully, feeling utterly exposed. My head was spinning.
"How do you know all this?"
Mark gave a heavy sigh, the kind that older people do when the entire world is weighing on their shoulders. In that instant, he looked wiser and more worn than a person his age should.
"Because I know you. You used to know me too, but you've been forced to forget. It's like a part of history has been deleted--edited out, if you will. Except I'm still here for some reason, even though I don't have any significance to Their plans."
"You're not making any sense." I edged away, wary. I tried not to glance at the door, so he wouldn't think I was getting any ideas. The second I got a clear shot, I was going to make a break for it.
"Don't you find it odd that your Aunt Eudora wants to speak with your family, even though you haven't talked in years? You barely know her, and yet there's the possibility that she might consider you in her will. That would be life changing. An inciting incident." Now deep in thought, Mark stepped away from the door, staring at the ground intently.
"What are you saying?" I said as I side-stepped towards the door.
"I have a theory, and you'll probably think I'm mad for thinking it, but the people around us, our surroundings, everything we know is a part of an elaborate story."
This guy isn't just a little crazy--he's bat poop crazy. I don't care what he knows about my personal life; I'm getting out of here.
Now only a few feet from the door, I put grabbed the handle.
I hesitated. Although it didn't make any sense, I felt bad about running away from Mark. He'd been nothing but straight with me, and even if he was crazy, it didn't seem like he had any bad intentions. Besides, how did he know that much about me? It wasn't like I was terribly open about myself--in fact, very few people knew much about me at all.
But what was Mark saying? That my entire life was a story? A fictionalized account created for someone's entertainment? But for who? None of it made any sense. The world felt real enough to me; I felt real enough.
"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Just leave me alone."
With that, I opened the door and ran, not looking back.
/---/---/
Things have taken a turn for the satirical. I wasn't planning on going that far with this, but gosh is it entertaining.
"Is everything alright?" Mom said, sounding as if she was talking to a frightened animal. Her eyes flickered to the phone in my hand, then back at my face.
I took a couple of breaths as I thought through an escape plan. "I...I'm just gonna go to the bathroom. I'll be right back." I said. Mark rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, watching my face intently with his somber blue eyes.
Not waiting for a reply, I turned away from my mother's puckered face and did my best speed-walk towards the bathroom.
Yeah, I'm just gonna leave. Just gonna get as faaaaaar away as possible. I don't know what's going on, but I don't like it one bit. Either this Mark guy is a psychopath, or...
I shook my head. I wasn't even going to consider the other possibility--that he was telling the truth.
After weaving around a few waiters that gave me nasty looks, I found the ladies restroom and pushed the door out of the way with an angry sweep. The door rebounded, clipping my shoulder on the way back. My cry of pain echoed through the bathrooms. I froze in place and waited for any snickers of laughter, but the stalls greeted me with a pointed silence.
Sighing with relief, I went to the mirrors and rested my hands on either side of one of the sinks. The granite felt sturdy and cool beneath my sweaty fingers; it was a stable reassurance as I listened to my breath flowing in and out.
Every time I shifted my weight, my heels would drag on the wood floor and make an ugly scratching sound. I held as still as possible, killing all sound except the muted voices from outside. I ignored my disheveled appearance in the mirror. I knew I looked on edge; I didn't need that confirmed.
Without warning, the restroom door flew open and slammed against the wall with the volume of a cannon shot. I jumped a foot in the air, nearly losing my balance in my stupid heels, and put my hands up in defense. With my eyes squeezed shut, I heard a thud and a muffled curse as the door swung back and hit whoever was invading my privacy. Daring to peek, I bit my lip a little too hard when I saw who it was.
The man in the tweed jacket was now rubbing his arm with a sour expression, seeming to not realize just how much he startled me.
Thousands of questions circulated, most of them profound, but I couldn't begin to form the words. Unfortunately, only one question got through:
"What are you doing in the girl's bathroom?" I squeaked. The question sounded like something a second grader would ask. I mentally smacked myself.
Mark looked up, his expression vulnerable. As much as I wanted to dislike him, I couldn't get past his sincere eyes. They were an open book, subject to judgement--negative or otherwise.
"I need to talk to you." He said.
"Well what if I don't want to talk? What if I think you're a psychopath and should leave me alone?"
"I apologize for scaring you. I know this must seem ludicrous, but really I'm telling the truth. Just please, hear me out."
Desperation filled his voice. I wasn't able to meet his eyes, so I stared at the ground, silent. I didn't trust him--not one bit--but I supposed there wasn't any harm in at least letting him explain.
"Fine. Justify away." I said, my voice tight.
"Your name is Valerie Evans. You're eighteen years old, and you have two parents and an older brother. You have dreams of being a professional photographer, but you doubt that it will ever happen." He stated, his voice growing quieter. My cheeks warmed. How did he know about my aspirations? I kept the fact that I wanted to be a photographer a closely guarded secret.
"What does this have to do with--"
"--you have an intense fear of cockroaches," he continued, "and you love being in the sun just after a rainstorm. You think that wearing glasses without lenses is tacky, and one of your favorite memories is of a time when you were stuck inside the house during a blizzard with your family, and you all spent the entire day swapping stories, eating homemade bread, and watching The Sound of Music."
I eyed Mark carefully, feeling utterly exposed. My head was spinning.
"How do you know all this?"
Mark gave a heavy sigh, the kind that older people do when the entire world is weighing on their shoulders. In that instant, he looked wiser and more worn than a person his age should.
"Because I know you. You used to know me too, but you've been forced to forget. It's like a part of history has been deleted--edited out, if you will. Except I'm still here for some reason, even though I don't have any significance to Their plans."
"You're not making any sense." I edged away, wary. I tried not to glance at the door, so he wouldn't think I was getting any ideas. The second I got a clear shot, I was going to make a break for it.
"Don't you find it odd that your Aunt Eudora wants to speak with your family, even though you haven't talked in years? You barely know her, and yet there's the possibility that she might consider you in her will. That would be life changing. An inciting incident." Now deep in thought, Mark stepped away from the door, staring at the ground intently.
"What are you saying?" I said as I side-stepped towards the door.
"I have a theory, and you'll probably think I'm mad for thinking it, but the people around us, our surroundings, everything we know is a part of an elaborate story."
This guy isn't just a little crazy--he's bat poop crazy. I don't care what he knows about my personal life; I'm getting out of here.
Now only a few feet from the door, I put grabbed the handle.
I hesitated. Although it didn't make any sense, I felt bad about running away from Mark. He'd been nothing but straight with me, and even if he was crazy, it didn't seem like he had any bad intentions. Besides, how did he know that much about me? It wasn't like I was terribly open about myself--in fact, very few people knew much about me at all.
But what was Mark saying? That my entire life was a story? A fictionalized account created for someone's entertainment? But for who? None of it made any sense. The world felt real enough to me; I felt real enough.
"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Just leave me alone."
With that, I opened the door and ran, not looking back.
/---/---/
Things have taken a turn for the satirical. I wasn't planning on going that far with this, but gosh is it entertaining.
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