i let You
speak for me.
You make
my mouth move.
But it is not
my words
i say.
It is Your words
i say.
And sometimes—
sometimes they
are very
ugly.
You have made
me so
ugly.
Yet i still seem
to smile.
But it is
not my smile.
It is
Yours.
Image source:
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9xZYzEMQQ1k/S3ucNm07OgI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/_Qt08_10Hhk/s400/westonart.jpg
When we were little, we always to wanted to be big; we always wanted to grow up. But now that we’ve gotten big and now that we’ve grown up, we find ourselves wishing we were little again.
Because there’s no one to tuck us in before bed. No one to tell us night-time stories and fill our heads with pretty things before we fall asleep. No one to scare away the monsters, and we’ve got plenty of monsters that need scaring.
No one to bandage our scraped knees and our cut thumbs. No one to kiss away our fevers. No one to wipe our tear-stained faces. And we’ve cried. A lot. Because growing up means less ignorance and more knowing. Knowing that the world is actually a pretty crappy place.
And we’ve got no one to tell us otherwise anymore. No one to tell us that the things we see on the news are real. Bombings, houses fires, forest fires, ship wrecks, car wrecks. Abused women, abused men. abused children, abused animals and the people that like to do the abusing. Headlines flashing, people starving, ice caps melting.
And all of it is real. And what hurts most is that we can’t do a damn thing about it. When we were little, we thought growing up meant being powerful. On the contrary; growing up means realizing how little power we actually have.
Growing up. Wonderful, isn’t it?
And all you have to do is trade your story books for text books and your text books for cheque books. Trade your stickers for your learner’s permit and your learner’s permit for your driver’s licence and your driver’s licence for a parking ticket. Trade Saturday morning cartoons for R-rated movies and bubble wands for cigarettes.
Because growing up means giving up the sweet things. Maybe that’s why we are all so bitter. Like stale coffee. But we drink it anyways. Because we are just so tired. Because we went to bed late las night, even though we knew we had to get up early for school and work the next morning. Because once you’ve grown up, you don’t get to sleep in anymore.
So many perks, right? So wonderful, right?
Wrong.
So here is a message for all the kiddies out there: Please don’t grow up.
Image source: http://data2.whicdn.com/images/66922422/large.jpg
The thick, carved desk stands hard and proud in the middle of the room. Piles of paper lay spread across the soft and thick surface of the wood. His chair is a dark, rich maroon, lays between the opening of the desk. The splendor room is deep red in color, with white oak wood tracing the edged near the dark hard wood. The room is represents every part of him, every part of his masculinity.
Thoughts are severed when the wind rattles from several sheets of rain battering against the seemingly fragile glass. The two Alpha men in the room bristle in apprehension. They are very powerful, strong and perfectly capable of rendering each other helpless. They talk among themselves, ignoring all the other souls in this room as if they are nonexistent. Tension builds heavily in the room, so heavy a knife would be able to cut through it as if it was softened butter. The powerful men snap at us when we look their way, making us throw our heads down, being submissive.
A prisoner must feel like this, locked up and having the key thrown away. We couldn’t leave and we couldn’t speak. The men continue to argue, looking at us for help suddenly, which is ridiculous since they were glaring at us before for even looking their way. Despair and anger begins to build up at their ridiculous behavior, why should we remain here if we aren’t needed.
Horror seeps out of my skin when he gives us a deep sideways glance, seemingly gauging for my reaction. I am so close to screaming, so close to hitting something. Why can’t they come to an agreement, if not a simple negotiation. I am so close to losing my composure if this matter is not settled soon. The men are both powerful company bosses, having some sort of control over us. I am simply an assistant, merely an ant compared to a boot. Suddenly, my worker stands up and gestures for me to follow. Curious enough, I concede.
He leads me out the door, and outside where the rain has stopped. He is quiet. He has quite the bipolar attitude. The area he takes me to is heavenly. The sky may be dark and the ground wet, but it adds to its aesthetics. Autumn leaves litter the floor with hues of orange, yellow, and reds, creating a kaleidoscope of colors. Some of the trees are barren while some have old limbs that are reaching upward, trying to touch the heavens above. The trees feel untamed, it’s feral, untamed by man. Its tranquil here, not a drop of rain falling, not a cold breeze to chill our bones. It’s completely peaceful.
I feel his presence behind me. His strong front is almost touching mine. My breath catches in my throat as he leans forward and whispers softly, his breath fanning my neck. “So, do you think we should take the deal?”
“Maroon Walls Home Design Photos.” Houzz. E/L Studio, n.d. Web. 27 Oct. 2015. <http://www.houzz.com/maroon-walls>.
I wrote the following piece for my ELA class. It was inspired by a student’s photo. If you are interested in viewing this photo, please go to the to this link I have inserted at the bottom of this post.
Illumination.
You fickle thing. You lost thing. Where have you been these frigid, winter months? Incognito, you have hidden from me. Concealed from my sight, somewhere beyond the grey.
The grey.
You left me when you were the only thing that could truly protect me. You left me. Until now.
~
Beams of pale light sift their way down through the clouds. They touch me, and I begin to cry. But I am not despaired; I am alleviated. My limbs, rigid and pained, begin to thaw. My face, ashen and shadowed, begins to warm. And I think can say that I feel okay. That I don’t feel so terrible today. Because something has changed, like it does every spring.
It happens to me every time. Each September. That’s always when I start to get bad. When summer sunshine is replaced by that of early autumn’s—dull. Come September 1, and the illumination begins to fade. It’s quite depressing, though I’m not sure why. And so I become quite depressed, even though there really isn’t a reason to be. And that’s what bothers me the most about it. Not having a reason.
Not having a reason for acting, feeling so strange those six months. From the early days of autumn to the late days of spring, I suffer. And I find myself sad to the point in which my cheeks become marred by my constant deluge of tears. Or monotonous, devoid of feeling, until I find myself wishing for the sadness and the tears again.
And so the grey settles in.
No energy. Lethargy. And it’s hard to get out of bed in the mornings. And It’s not that I don’t want to get up, it’s that I can’t get up. As if something has pinned me to the mattress. Something sinister, malevolent.
She wishes to kill me.
I know it’s a she, because sometimes she talks to me. And she sounds like me. And, well, I guess she is me.
And some mornings she tells me to go and kill myself. And she makes me think of how I could do it too. Like hanging myself from the ceiling fan. Or slitting my wrists and letting myself bleed out. Or drinking Liquid-Draino.
I don’t know why I would want to die. Because I don’t know why I feel and act so strange sometimes. And that is the worst part.
But I’m feeling okay today. I don’t feel so terrible.
No. Today I woke up, and I found that I could move. And I didn’t feel so lethargic. And she wasn’t there to pin me down to the mattress. Or to tell me to go kill myself. Because she can only ever feed on the grey. And I think maybe she is afraid of the illumination, of the light that was peeking its way through my curtains.
And today when I was brushing my teeth, I didn’t feel so sad. Or monotonous. And perhaps I wasn’t overcome with joy, but I was complacent. And I even smiled a little when I looked in the mirror this morning, because my hair was messy and askew from my previous night’s sleep.
And I smile now too, as I stand beneath the illumination. Because I don’t feel so terrible today.
~
Illumination
You fickle thing. Lost but now found. Where have you been these frigid, winter months? Incognito, you have hidden from me. Concealed from my sight, somewhere beyond the grey.
The grey.
You left me when you were the only thing that could truly protect me. You left me. Until now.
Illumination.
You are my escape. My escape from the grey. And I am relieved. But I know that I won’t have you forever. I know I can only escape for so long.
Escape. But only temporary. Only until the grey begins to settle in again. For now it waits, patiently, until it can trap me when the time is right.
The illumination never lasts.
Please don’t leave me alone again, or I think I might really lose myself this time. Please don’t leave like you do every September. Please stay this time.
Please.
For more information on Seasonal Affective Disorder please visit http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/seasonal-affective-disorder/basics/definition/con-20021047
Inspiration: http://ctsphotos2b.edublogs.org/2015/04/10/breath-of-fresh-air/
Image source: http://theodysseyonline.com/suffolk-uni/freshmen-15-turned-30/171181
I am not an easy person to understand; the different aspects of my emotional and mental personality are entwined across heartstrings and silver tendrils of my soul. They weave a tangled web that to many may look like an intricate knot, but to me is a prismatic sculpture of unbreakable bonds.
Emotionally, I am closed off to the world. I wear a metal mask that I can shape and mold to reflect what I want others to see. As an actress, this comes easily to me. However, on the inside, my emotions are fire. Euphoria, despair and everything in between burns the hottest with dark blue flames. The unendurablity of the heat, however, always waxes and wanes with the intensity of the emotion. Ranges of anger, fear, empowerment and determination glow white hot with intensity to rival that of the blue flames… and yet the blue is somehow hotter, stronger, and brighter. Amber and copper consume peace, love, and hate as fuel for to their flames… curiously, while these are the coolest of my emotions- though by no means cool enough to touch without sustaining severe burns- they also happen to be the flames that blaze the highest and the longest. They are the emotions that when ignited, sear me the most often. My metal mask expands to encompass my entire psyche, in order to protect the vulnerable flesh and blood within. I use caustic words as a defense when people begin to probe the cracks in my steel suit of armored protection. But the majority of the time, an image of false origins will be reflected onto the cool, molten silver surface that encapsulates the smouldering heat within. This keeps them all at bay; people watch what is projected and believe it.
Meanwhile, the hollow caverns of my veins reverberate with stinging pain and scorching joy; my hidden emotions and the ways I allow them to affect me have become a large part of who I am… or at least a large part of who I perceive myself to be.
Mentally, I am a strange creature. I describe my mind as a glass of water- and not as a metaphor. When I look into my mind, unclouded and unblemished by worries or reoccurring thoughts, it is literally a transparent glass full to the brim with clear, iceless water. Thoughts constantly fall into the glass, each with a different colour, texture, taste, emotional feel, and scent. For example, in my mind Sundays have always been a violet-blue colour, with flecks of gold imbedded into them. They are soft and fluid, as if they are silk woven from water. Sundays smell like lavender and honey, and are nostalgic, quiet, and somewhat wistful. The song of Sundays is Bad Day by Daniel Powter.
Different words, too, each have their own feel to them. The word ‘no’ for example, is a violent red colour that falls like a stone into the glass. When it touches into the water, steam rises because it is so hot. ‘No’ tastes like butter and dirt. To give another example, the word ‘remembrance’ falls silently through the water- neither liquid nor gas- and has a green-grey colouring. It feels thin and slimy yet somehow is intangible, and it smells like seaweed.
However, in my day-to-day life, I never think about the individual words; my mind is like Alice in Wonderland at times because I think with such rapidity that the glass can be full of a thousand mismatched words, phrases, and thoughts all at the same time. When this happens, which is most of the time, my world becomes a conglomerate, heterogeneous fusion of every colour, texture, shape, scent, and taste known to man, all coalesced into a mass chaos of fluids.
Sometimes the glass overflows. This happens if too much plunges into the water with too much force. All at once, my mental faculties will halt and flee because there is a flood and suddenly- physically- I need to get away from the world.
This is why I write. I write because the overflowing water, tainted with a thousand distinct thoughts, is somehow channeled out from my mind, through the pen, and onto the paper where it forms itself into carefully crafted words. I write because sometimes my skin is seared off by the fierce, cutthroat scorching of my emotions, and the only way to quench to the flames is to put pen to paper. I write because it is what I am meant to do.
I write because I must. I write for the same reasons that I sleep and I breathe- because if I didn’t, I would die.
Photo Citations:
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ba/a8/5b/baa85bc685926980926f7f9e386a0805.jpg
https://media.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/shrinknp_400_400/p/5/005/08d/0ee/0ae2822.jpg
http://www.hdwallpapers-3d.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/writing-quotes-hd-wallpaper-19.jpg