Life is full of hard choices.
What do you do?
Do you strive and struggle for a standard of perfection that you can never hope to attain?
Or do you just give up?
Not all the time, but in those few, rare moments when your blood boils up inside you, and you can hardly stand it, and you want to scream and fight off the inevitable.
Do you suffer in silence, and let your wounds bleed and bleed until the vessels around your eyes burst from all the tears?
The little red patches left behind don’t go away so easily.
How do you decide what’s important? What’s worth fighting for, and what to let go?
Even though it’s the little things you have to cling to. Or at least it seems that way.
Because when you add up all the little things, it makes up a whole person, a life, a soul.
And all of a sudden, you have the choice to make.
And you lie, not a whole lie, but you hide the little pieces that make it truth.
She did the same thing this morning, and I scoffed at her.
Now I’m no better than her. Is any one of us above the other?
Then why do I hate her so?
She’s taken everything away from me. Can’t I keep this one little thing to myself?
This one little thing, that makes up such a small piece of me?
Is the choice to lie a piece of me too?
I’ve seen the most truly humble people lash out in a fleeting moment of pride, and even the most arrogant swine bow down in a single instance of humility.
And people thought that that was who they were.
Why are we judged by such small pieces of our lives? After all, don’t all the little pieces make up the real picture?
Here I am, babbling.
Just a bunch of silly little pieces
From the heart of a girl
Who cries when no one’s looking.
Maybe there’s a bigger picture,
A collage made from many broken pieces
That tells the story of a girl
Who wipes away the tears each morning
And tries to put the pieces back together.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The 2009-2010 School Year in Review
I sit in the last bathroom stall to the right, enjoying a quiet moment just before the bell rings. Seven more days of school. I can’t believe it. And after today, only six more days, and after that, only one more week. It’s unreal. Life happened this year. And it was a war.
It was a war against my best friends turned enemies, resisting the urge to strangle them when they pretended to act like nothing had happened, and avoiding their cold stares and quiet sabotages when I finally broke away from them.
It was a war against the replacements my two remaining friends who couldn’t stand each other found for me as I was stretched to the breaking point trying to run back-and-forth between them. The endless battles of fighting to the death for my friends, and dying, and suddenly finding myself all alone, almost killed me.
It was a war against all the screaming and chaos surrounding me, every day, as I tried desperately to find a peace within myself that could keep me sane for 180 of madness. A war against all the ridiculous and unceasing complaints and accusations that flew unchecked from the mouths of those who just can’t see around the corner, at all the good the one they abuse the most is doing for them.
It was a war. I have battle wounds, and scars that will never leave me. I almost didn’t make it. So many times I wanted to give up, to drop out, to quit, and switch schools. My sister did. Third quarter she dropped out and started homeschooling. I wanted to follow her, to home school for the last semester, then run away to some fantastic art school, never to be bothered again.
But I held on. Sometimes with only one hand, sometimes with no more than a finger. And guess what? Things are finally looking up. My frenemies don’t bother me any more, at least, most of the time. We’ve learned to stay out of each other’s ways, and it’s much better than all the cold stares and awkward moments. I’m reconnecting with my two friends. I’ve still got a lot of ground, and maybe some trust and commitment, to regain with them, but it’s getting there. And, the two have actually been engaged in some civil conversations lately. I’m not expecting any kiss-and-make-up BFF-again moment between them, but it’s nice to see them being sociable. I have found some inner-peace, and some inner strength. And the one I’ve been sticking up for all year now knows that there is someone who gets him.
There are gonna be big changes next year. New buildings, new teachers, new classmates, new challenges. I can’t predict what will happen—whether it will be a complete disaster, or one of the best years of my young life. I guess only God knows at this point. Whatever the case, I have to keep looking up, at the sky, at the stars, at heaven, and let life run its course.
It was a war against my best friends turned enemies, resisting the urge to strangle them when they pretended to act like nothing had happened, and avoiding their cold stares and quiet sabotages when I finally broke away from them.
It was a war against the replacements my two remaining friends who couldn’t stand each other found for me as I was stretched to the breaking point trying to run back-and-forth between them. The endless battles of fighting to the death for my friends, and dying, and suddenly finding myself all alone, almost killed me.
It was a war against all the screaming and chaos surrounding me, every day, as I tried desperately to find a peace within myself that could keep me sane for 180 of madness. A war against all the ridiculous and unceasing complaints and accusations that flew unchecked from the mouths of those who just can’t see around the corner, at all the good the one they abuse the most is doing for them.
It was a war. I have battle wounds, and scars that will never leave me. I almost didn’t make it. So many times I wanted to give up, to drop out, to quit, and switch schools. My sister did. Third quarter she dropped out and started homeschooling. I wanted to follow her, to home school for the last semester, then run away to some fantastic art school, never to be bothered again.
But I held on. Sometimes with only one hand, sometimes with no more than a finger. And guess what? Things are finally looking up. My frenemies don’t bother me any more, at least, most of the time. We’ve learned to stay out of each other’s ways, and it’s much better than all the cold stares and awkward moments. I’m reconnecting with my two friends. I’ve still got a lot of ground, and maybe some trust and commitment, to regain with them, but it’s getting there. And, the two have actually been engaged in some civil conversations lately. I’m not expecting any kiss-and-make-up BFF-again moment between them, but it’s nice to see them being sociable. I have found some inner-peace, and some inner strength. And the one I’ve been sticking up for all year now knows that there is someone who gets him.
There are gonna be big changes next year. New buildings, new teachers, new classmates, new challenges. I can’t predict what will happen—whether it will be a complete disaster, or one of the best years of my young life. I guess only God knows at this point. Whatever the case, I have to keep looking up, at the sky, at the stars, at heaven, and let life run its course.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Holding On...
This is the beginning of a roleplay that I started a couple days ago with a friend of mine (yes, I realize it’s not November. But the rainy weather these past few days probably inspired me). I like the piece, so I changed the ending just a little and now it can stand alone as a sort of mini-short story. Here goes:
Rain pounded her shoulders in icy torrents; her skin scraped against the concrete as she gripped the sidings of the old bridge. Wind flew this way and that, causing her to sway from hunger—her stomach had been empty since the morning before. Everything was gone: her father had disappeared; the police had asked her endless questions, only to evict her from her penthouse apartment. All she’d had was stuffed into her brown leather trunk. Now even the trunk itself had been sold away for a meal, her last. All that was left was the white summer dress clinging to her skin in the cold November rain, and the beautiful gold-colored heels that made her feet bleed so badly as she wandered across the city with them, begging for a pair of soft slippers to trade for the cursed things. But, no one wanted them. Winter was coming, and the Great Depression was all around them. They were impractical. The one-hundred dollar pair of heels suddenly became less than the price of a food stamp, and now they were worn and bloody from tramping through the cold New York streets.
She stared down at the river, so vast and serene that you could barely see the piddling of the fierce rain upon its surface. It was a fine way to die, swift and poetic. She took a deep breath, and thought to herself for the fourth time, this is it.
A gust of wind hit her chest, and she staggered backwards, onto the street. Suddenly, one of her golden heels snapped from under, and she crashed to the ground in a heap of stinging hands and knees. “Why?!” she screamed, ripping the pretty shoes from her feet. She sprung up and hurled them over the side of the bridge…and watched them as they were swept down the river with surprising force. A shudder down her spine turned into an uncontrollable trembling—she couldn’t do it. The young woman sank to the ground, burying her head in her knees, and suddenly sobbed. A few people walked by, but none offered more than a passing glance. They had their own problems to worry about, their own families to take care of, their own tears to shed. The young woman was completely and totally alone.
What was the point of it all? She had nothing to hold on to, no one to stand by, nothing to stand for. If she were to die right then, no one would notice. So why couldn’t she do it? Was it fear? Or that last thread of hope that still hung her heart suspended in her chest? She wanted it to snap for God’s sake, to break away and release her from this hell. She had never thought much about hope when she was the princess of New York City, watching everyone turn their heads in admiration as she walked by. Now, the chill, grey air washed away all the color in her once rosy skin, all the life out of her frightened blue eyes. Spidery veins of blonde hair clung to her cheeks and her arms in little clusters. She was like a discarded doll—broken and empty, with only that one thread of hope still holding her together. Maybe in a few minutes, she would stand up and try once again to coax herself off that bridge, into that frigid, sweeping water. Maybe in a few minutes, it would all be over. Maybe in a few minutes, that strand of hope would finally snap. It was still holding on, straining, waiting, for something…
The rain suddenly lessed over her, as if a burden was being lifted off her shoulders. She looked up, red-eyed and sniffling in surprise. A young man stood over her, smiling, holding a black, patched umbrella over her head.
Rain pounded her shoulders in icy torrents; her skin scraped against the concrete as she gripped the sidings of the old bridge. Wind flew this way and that, causing her to sway from hunger—her stomach had been empty since the morning before. Everything was gone: her father had disappeared; the police had asked her endless questions, only to evict her from her penthouse apartment. All she’d had was stuffed into her brown leather trunk. Now even the trunk itself had been sold away for a meal, her last. All that was left was the white summer dress clinging to her skin in the cold November rain, and the beautiful gold-colored heels that made her feet bleed so badly as she wandered across the city with them, begging for a pair of soft slippers to trade for the cursed things. But, no one wanted them. Winter was coming, and the Great Depression was all around them. They were impractical. The one-hundred dollar pair of heels suddenly became less than the price of a food stamp, and now they were worn and bloody from tramping through the cold New York streets.
She stared down at the river, so vast and serene that you could barely see the piddling of the fierce rain upon its surface. It was a fine way to die, swift and poetic. She took a deep breath, and thought to herself for the fourth time, this is it.
A gust of wind hit her chest, and she staggered backwards, onto the street. Suddenly, one of her golden heels snapped from under, and she crashed to the ground in a heap of stinging hands and knees. “Why?!” she screamed, ripping the pretty shoes from her feet. She sprung up and hurled them over the side of the bridge…and watched them as they were swept down the river with surprising force. A shudder down her spine turned into an uncontrollable trembling—she couldn’t do it. The young woman sank to the ground, burying her head in her knees, and suddenly sobbed. A few people walked by, but none offered more than a passing glance. They had their own problems to worry about, their own families to take care of, their own tears to shed. The young woman was completely and totally alone.
What was the point of it all? She had nothing to hold on to, no one to stand by, nothing to stand for. If she were to die right then, no one would notice. So why couldn’t she do it? Was it fear? Or that last thread of hope that still hung her heart suspended in her chest? She wanted it to snap for God’s sake, to break away and release her from this hell. She had never thought much about hope when she was the princess of New York City, watching everyone turn their heads in admiration as she walked by. Now, the chill, grey air washed away all the color in her once rosy skin, all the life out of her frightened blue eyes. Spidery veins of blonde hair clung to her cheeks and her arms in little clusters. She was like a discarded doll—broken and empty, with only that one thread of hope still holding her together. Maybe in a few minutes, she would stand up and try once again to coax herself off that bridge, into that frigid, sweeping water. Maybe in a few minutes, it would all be over. Maybe in a few minutes, that strand of hope would finally snap. It was still holding on, straining, waiting, for something…
The rain suddenly lessed over her, as if a burden was being lifted off her shoulders. She looked up, red-eyed and sniffling in surprise. A young man stood over her, smiling, holding a black, patched umbrella over her head.
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