Sometimes when I am alone, I get the overwhelming feeling that I will not make it to thirty. Talk about a scary thought. It's as if Death sits down bedside me casually, as if he wants to light up a cigarette and sip scotch while saying, "You know, you really don't have that much longer to live. Just thought I'd let you know." With a careless smirk, he would sidle out of the room, his trail of cigarette smoke lingering in the room.
It's not that I'm necessarily scared of death. I'm sure if you've thought about it, which I think most people have, it is not a pleasant thought, but to me, it is natural. And it's not like no one has done it before.
I just don't like the idea of not being able to accomplish things. My list of goals and dreams could supply all of California with toilet paper for a month. And yet I can't stop adding to it: travel to all 50 states, publish a book, watch all Lord of the Rings movies in marathon setting.
Maybe all these thoughts of where my life is going are stemming from the fact I am now twenty. If I live until I'm eighty, I've already lived a quarter of my life. It gives me chills to think about.
So many people complain about their good fortune, myself included. I know sometimes when college gets crazy and all I want to do is go home, it's hard to be thankful for just the opportunity to go to school. Today has been one of those days. But, when I really think about it, I am happy for the stress and pressure. It wills me to accomplish things that otherwise might sit around and never get done. The pressure motivates me to be all I can be, to reach that top level of self-actualization. It's nice to hope that in the end, it might just all pay off. I hope that through my hard work, some day I might just be able to publish that book. Some day, if I save enough money, I might be able to travel the world. I'd rather die with my dreams unanswered then never have dreams at all.

"Hunny, if you tap your nails anymore on that countertop, they are going to snap off."
Christine looked up into the eyes of the bartender, Georgia, a fitting name because she spoke with a deep Southern drawl even though she lived in Massachusetts. She was a motherly type and had been since the day Christine had came to this bar six years ago.
"I'm sorry." She lifted her glass, a lowball filled with vodka tonic and said, "Another, please?"
Georgia laughed. "You sure you don't want something a bit stronger than that? Your nerves are firing so fast, they're electrocuting me, dammit. "
The bartender gingerly took Christine's glass and started to mix her another. Christine faced away from the bar, skimming for a face she recognized in the crowded room, begging for a pair of dark blue eyes to light up the way they had the first time she saw them.
"How late is he?" Georgia inquired, placing Christine's freshly mixed vodka tonic in her hands, then rested her elbows on the bar so as to look Christine directly in the face.
Christine lowered her glass after a long sip and said, "Only twenty minutes."
Georgia looked her over with a penetrating gaze.
"Ok, ok, you got me: forty-five minutes." Christine sighed and took another long drink from her glass.
Georgia laughed and straightened up, grasping for a bar towel to wipe her dewy hands. She faced Christine and said in a serious tone, "Well hunny, if he only had the power to predict what you were going to wear tonight, he would have been here a longggg time ago. God only knows what's underneath those duds."
Christine openly laughed into the air and looked into the bar's mirror: Reflected behind the bottles of Absolute, Patron, and Ketel One was her likeness, staring her back in the face. She even had to admit, acknowledging with a slight upturn of the mouth, that she did clean up well. Smoldering eyes, complete with smudged eyeliner and metallic powder eyeshadow. Otherwise, a natural look completed her face; a light powder to conceal what she dubbed her 'good wrinkles': laughlines, and a tart lipgloss to reflect the bar's dimly lit atmosphere.
Then there were her clothes: stiletto pumps with her classic Banana Republic jeans, a tiny tear in the back pocket. She'd been stupid enough to play backyard football in them the year prior, and unfortunately for her, she'd been tackled by a brier bush. Paired with a tucked in cream-colored blouse and a simple black belt, she felt extremely radiant that night. She wondered how much had to do with the clothing and how much had to do with whom she was supposed to be meeting.
She snatched her near-empty glass from the counter, and spun around on her stool, looking at her phone to see that another twenty minutes had gone by since she had last checked. Staring at it wistfully, she willed it to ring, for him to call and say something came up and he wasn't coming. She knew she'd been silly to hope for him to show. They'd only had one other date, if you could call running into a random person at a nightclub and then spending the night dancing and talking an official date. Being young and finding someone special was hard, but being in mid-thirties and finding that someone was much more difficult.
"Hey hunny, maybe you should stop staring at that goddamn contraption of yours for two seconds."
Christine followed Georgia's eyes across the room to where the door had just opened, snowflakes drifting in on the new bar-goer. He swiftly brushed the stray flakes off of his deep brown hair and looked up. An electrifying shock crept its way through her chest outward to the tips of her fingers.
"Knew it was him," Georgia chuckled, as if she had felt it, too.

Mind of Mother.

Mascara stains. Everywhere. I knew I never should have purchased those white Egyptian cotton sheets; my pillowcase was now covered in deep-brown MAX Factor mascara. What to tell my husband?: I was eating chocolate covered strawberries. Guitly pleasure. Oops.

I don't know why I was so ashamed to admit I cry. My five year old daugther did it all of the time without so much as a blush from embarrasment. I pictured Jessica falling off of her bike. Cry. Breaking her Barbie Corvette. Cry. Losing to her father in Monopoly. Wailingggg cry.

I knew that I would have to break Jessi of that sometime. And soon. I don't know how much more crying I can take. Five year olds don't have anything to cry about, I thought. All they have to worry about is learning the alphabet, singing stupid songs, and making their parents miserable.

I gasped in what seemed as pain, and a sob escaped my lips; Oh my God, I am a terrible mother. I hate my child. I hate my child, and here I sit, crying because I envy my five year old child, her innocence, her radiant face.

I wiped the mascara and tears from my own, rubbing my eyes much too rough. I would avoid the mirror. At all costs, I must avoid the mirror. What a hateful contraption it was. Whomever invented it should be thrown into the bowels of Hell.

Clean yourself up. Make yourself presentable for Mark. He'll be home soon. And he will want dinner. Eye drops to get rid of your awful bloodshot eyes. Coverup to conceal dark circles beneath my drooped eyelids. And more mascara. There, like new. All done without a mirror.

Just a day in the life.

Take 2.

He stood in her doorway, quietly poised so as not to wake her. His eyes drifted over his daughter's sprawled body, sleeping deeply. His baby girl had turned three today. Olivia.
He watched her breathing, inhales and exhales so delicate, like a light breeze on a summer's eve. Her tiny limbs, outstretched in dream, appeared so frail, so breakable. The light from the hall basked her face in an ethereal glow, and from his vantage point, it appeared there was a light halo around her head. For him, it wasn't hard to believe this true.
His baby girl meant the world to him, and yet he had let so many things come in between himself and her. Work, work, and more work. Where as his wife worked to live, he lived to work. How he regretted it as he stood in that doorway.
He wiped the tears from his eyes before they could fall as he recalled the memories he did not have: her first step had been taken when he was abroad, negotiating a contract with a company which had gotten him his promotion. Her first lock of hair taken from her crown while he was in Chicago, attending a meeting that had the potential to make or break his career. Her first word, "daddy", spoken with such enthusiasm while he was on the phone, right outside on the patio, furiously arguing with a contractor. Staring at his angel of a daughter sleeping, he could not believe he had missed her cherubim face, bright with happiness, speaking his name.
No matter how many times his wife told him that the photo albums did no justice, he did not listen. How he wished he had taken in one ounce of understanding when Marie had said that! He remembered it clearly; it had been right after he had missed Olivia's first dance recital. He had intended to be home for it, but he ran late at work, stuck in a meeting with his superiors. When he returned home, he found Marie, teary-eyed and exhausted not from a long day's work, but from his incompetence at being a father. At first he had been furious, yelling that Olivia wouldn't even remember he wasn't there. Looking back on it, he wished he had never said those words; the look on his wife's face, such a beautiful face, contorted into such painful anguish, stated in such a defeated, disgusted tone, "You're probably right. But I'll remember it forever. And she will, too, once she is old enough to look at the pictures from this, and you're not in them. You just don't get it, Will. You think you can get all you need from photographs, but you're wrong. Photographs cannot capture the joy I felt, and what you would have felt had you seen that little girl dance her heart out. Or how she felt when her teacher handed her that pink rose in that vase." She gestured toward the island, where a solitary rose stood, perfect in all ways, just like his daughter.
She turned away from him. "But I'll have those emotions, those feelings and memories forever. I just wish you did, too."
He saw her start to walk away, tried to open his mouth with some logical argument, some rational to show why he wasn't there, but couldn't. The next thing he knew, the bedroom door had slammed, and he was left to stand in the kitchen, silently mulling over what his wife had just said.

Standing silently in the doorway of Olivia's room, a satin pink tone that matched to color of her lively cheeks, her parted lips, he sighed; a sigh so deep it made him feel as if he were sinking into a abysmal cavern, and that he could scrape at the clay walls as much as he wanted, yet he could never claw himself out. He realized for the first time that as much as he had succeeded at work, he had failed as a father. Three years of feigning sleep so his wife would have to wake up, wrenched from dreams to care for their nightmare-stricken child; three years of telling Olivia to stop pounding on the piano while he was on conference calls; three years, if put plainly, just not being there.
His heart ached as he silently closed the door to his daughter's room, leaving her to dream soundly. As he made his way down the hall, stopping to look at the beautiful home in which he lived: the marble staircase, the granite vanities in the master bath, the gold leaf molding, he asked himself if it had been worth it. Had forgoing being a father really been worth the ornate carvings on the canopy bed, in which his wife slept soundlessly, not plagued with guilt.
Slipping off his slippers and sliding into bed, he wondered how anyone changes course? How do people drop what they had their life invested in and leave it? How do I abandon all I have worked for? He rolled restlessly to his side, staring at the picture on his nightstand: Olivia nestled in the arms of her father, Marie smiling at her newborn baby girl as she rested her head on Will's shoulder. And as if in quiet rebuttal, his conscience asked him, 'How do you not?'.

He stood in her doorway, quietly poised so as not to wake her. His eyes drifted over his daughter's sprawled body, sleeping deeply. His baby girl had turned three today. Olivia.
He watched her breathing, inhales and exhales so delicate, like a light breeze on a summer's eve. Her tiny limbs, outstretched in dream, appeared so frail, so breakable. The light from the hall basked her face in an ethereal glow, and from his vantage point, it appeared there was a light halo around her head. For him, it wasn't hard to believe this true.
His baby girl meant the world to him, and yet he had let so many things come in between himself and her. Work, work, and more work. Where as his wife worked to live, he lived to work. How he regretted it as he stood in that doorway.
He wiped the tears from his eyes before they could fall as he recalled the memories he did not have: her first step had been taken when he was abroad, negotiating a contract with a company which had gotten him his promotion. Her first lock of hair taken from her crown while he was in Chicago, attending a meeting that had the potential to make or break his career. Her first word, "daddy", spoken with such enthusiasm while he was on the phone, right outside on the patio, furiously arguing with a contractor. Staring at his angel of a daughter sleeping, he could not believe he had missed her cherubim face, bright with happiness, speaking his name.
No matter how many times his wife told him that the photo albums did no justice, he did not listen. How he wished he had taken in one ounce of understanding when Marie had said that! He remembered it clearly; it had been right after he had missed Olivia's first dance recital. He had intended to be home for it, but he ran late at work, stuck in a meeting with his superiors. When he returned home, he found Marie, teary-eyed and exhausted not from a long day's work, but from his incompetence at being a father. At first he had been furious, yelling that Olivia wouldn't even remember he wasn't there. Looking back on it, he wished he had never said those words; the look on his wife's face, such a beautiful face, contorted into such painful anguish, stated in such a defeated, disgusted tone, "You're probably right. But I'll remember it forever. And she will, too, once she is old enough to look at the pictures from this, and you're not in them. You just don't get it, Will. You think you can get all you need from photographs, but you're wrong. Photographs cannot capture the joy I felt, and what you would have felt had you seen that little girl dance her heart out. Or how she felt when her teacher handed her that pink rose in that vase." She gestured toward the island, where a solitary rose stood, perfect in all ways, just like his daughter.
She turned away from him. "But I'll have those emotions, those feelings and memories forever. I just wish you did, too."
He saw her start to walk away, tried to open his mouth with some logical argument, some rational to show why he wasn't there, but couldn't. The next thing he knew, the bedroom door had slammed, and he was left to stand in the kitchen, silently mulling over what his wife had just said.

As he stood outside of Olivia's room, the birthday girl quite exhausted from the influx of guests and family that had been in and out of the house all day, he realized his wife was right. Quietly, he closed her door but a crack (lest bad dreams should awaken his child; he wanted to hear her so he would be able to comfort her) and headed to his bedroom.
Tip-toeing to the bed where he slipped out of his slippers, he climbed under the covers, looking at his gorgeous wife, basked in sleep. God, Olivia had gotten Marie's good looks: her poetic collarbones, her wavy brown hair... He gently caressed Marie's side, and after a few moments, she rolled lightly into his arms, where he buried his head in the crook of her neck and said, "I love you, Marie. And Olivia. Very much. I say that too much but don't seem to back it up. I've not only missed her birthday, but yours as well, too often. One time is too often. It's time for a change."
With that, he kissed her neck which appeared to glimmer in the moonlight, her skin so supple to the touch. His wife nuzzled closer to his body, rolled to face him. He had not known she had been awoken. She lightly touched his face, graced with straying stubble and said, "Thank you". Marie took his hand into hers and rolled onto her side, pulling his body close to hers, as husbands and wives sleep. Dreams wove their ways into the house, and the world was still if but for a moment.

To Nature.

The faint hour falls where the world is still,
the deer bedding down to sleep, owls nesting,
sounds so soft, like cracks of twigs and stale leaves;
some minds are tricked into sensing silence,
but I hear the world come alive at dusk,
for this is the time when the static dies
and all can be heard which is in alignment:
the scampers of mice away from hawk's eyes,
seeking shelter from Death's penetrating gaze;
sighs of small chicks, hunkered down for the night,
mother's watchful eye never straying from
their heaving breasts, so full of life and dreams;
the hum of cicadas clinging to bark,
pine, oak, birch: all suited for their night-song,
a symphony conducted only by the wind
dancing along the branches wistfully…
A breath of the fall-night air shocks my lungs;
the notes of the twilight sonata sting

My eyes, tears clinging to my brown lashes.

Perhaps the wind does not form my teardrops,

But the unity with which nature lives,

An unkempt balance of cyclical work,

With no need for human mediation.

What glory have I stumbled upon now,

In moonlit wanderings when the world sleeps,

And dreams in peaceful motions like the sea?

the reality of dreams.

I recently changed my major. Goodbye International Business, hello English-Professional Writing. God, what a relief. After a lot of thinking, I definitely don't think the corporate world would have been for me. I always thought I would love marketing, but after realizing it was truly just about making a piece-of-shit product look great to get people's money, I decided, ehhh, not for me. Don't get me wrong, human consumption behavior is fascinating, but I enjoy writing much more. Hey, maybe someday I'll write about human behavior!

Dr. Matthew Willen is a professor at Elizabethtown. I was a bit anxious for my first meeting with him, considering several students in the English Department told me he was 'scary' and 'intimidating'. I'm not sure to whom they compared him, but to me, Dr. Willen is one of the most amazing people I have ever met, far from intimidating. Being part of the English Department, he has a great appreciation for the arts, including his love, photography. Once I wiped the sweat off of my palms, shook his hand, and made myself comfortable, settling into a chair on the opposite side of his desk, the first thing I noticed besides his cheery face was a palpable sound coming from the photographs on the wall. The one that struck me the most was that of a great ship, which appeared to be anchored. "Denmark", he said, smiling as if he were recalling an experience of a lifetime, which I'm sure it had been.

Sitting across from him, at that moment, I knew that I had made the right decision. Here I was, sitting in the office of a man whom has accomplished so much, traveled, and yet he is asking me all about myself: what do you like to do? where do you live? have any pets? And what amazed me the most was how I felt when I talked about a possible directed study; I have always wanted to write quotes and take photographs to represent the words. Every time I talk about this goal, I can feel my face light up. Most of the time, the person listening nods and smiles, but there have only been a few times where I have felt like I was looking into a mirror, the inspiration and awe of achieving such a goal staring me back into the face, reflected by the other person's expressions. And that is exactly how I felt when talking with Dr. Willen. He didn't look at me like I was crazy for wanting to achieve such a feat, but smiled like he knew what was going on inside of me; the synapses firing, a bubbling of excitement occurring in my gray matter. I guess the phrase about "everyone just wants to be understood" is true; having someone share my enthusiasm is such a shock of inspiration, like cold showers on hot summer days.

So, I now have Dr. Willen as my advisor (he had asked at the end of the meeting if he could request me; seriously, the next 2 and 1/2 years at E-town will be amazingggg), and I'm in the midst of planning a directed study.

Life is good. :)

Short Story: Part III

Oh Ronald, please tell me you're joking... Tonia's mental image of Mr. Handsome and herself walking hand in hand while snow clung to his gorgeous black eyelashes was squashed, as if Ronald's fat ass itself had sat directly on it.

"So, you're saying he's a jerkoff?" Tonia wasn't giving up hope yet; the scent of a kindred man had contacted her olifactory system, and she was not willing to let go so easily.

Ronald finished his biscotti and said, "I mean, I've only talked to him once, and my man-instinct said to me, 'Man, this guy is a real doucher.'"

"And what makes you say that, Ronald?"

"Well, I went into his office the first day he was at work; you were out sick: A.K.A- playing hookie, but anyways..."

Tonia restrained the idea to just kick him in his lard of a nutsack. She needed to know: To still pursue, or not to pursue the worthy-of-Armani-model-that-acutally-looks-like-he-might-have-a-cerebral-cortex.

"... he was on the phone having a conversation that was obviously a personal call, which helloooo, he's at work. Personal calls equals big no-no."

"What makes you say it was personal?" Tonia pried.

"I mean, he had the call on speaker phone, and since he had his back to the door, I could hear everything. He was talking to a man who sounded close to tears, saying something about how everything would be ok and he would try to work things out with him later. And the guy on the other line said, 'Look Brian, you made a committment to me. You do know what committment is, right?' And that's all I caught, because by that time, Resident Asshole spun around, saw me standing there, and freaked a shit! I never even met the guy before, and the first words out of his mouth were, 'Excuse me, do I know you?' Psh, how rude."

Seems like a pretty logical question to me, you fucktard. Damn, she was getting pretty good at this filtering thing. Mentally, Tonia ran through all of the information she had just received, filing it in order: so, Ronald had been spying, heard what seemed to be a very personal phone call with another guy, close to tears, committment... A lightbulb went off so brighly in Tonia's head she was temporarily blinded. Or it could have been from the anguish of realizing: Brian, or New Resident Asshole was gay.

Short Story: Part II

Unfortunately for Tonia, Ronald had already had his caloric intake for the night from stuffing his black hole of a mouth full of Christmas-tree shaped brownies, pumpkin roll, and green and red M&Ms. Once the high fructose corn syrup and cane sugar hit his gray matter, she found it in her best interest to duck and cover from the river of words with which she knew she would be inundated. Before she could react to the sight of him, Tonia saw Ronald make a turn straight toward her.

"Hey Tonia! Have you tried the chocolate chip cookies Rachel made? Oh my God, they are to die for! What about these roasted pecan clusters? Also delicious!"

Tonia took in the first few sentences of Ronald's blubbering, being careful to avoid the spray of lingering food particles spewing from his lips. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded herself of what her therapist had told her a few weeks ago: "Imagine you are sitting in front of a water fall, inhaling the misty fragrance." What a load of crap: at this point, the only person inhaling anything was Ronald, stuffing his face full of pecan clusters.

"Yes," she lied, "I tried them, and you are absolutely right; they are quite delicious." Please go away, she thought. All I want to do is just sit on the couch, drink my glass of wine, and not have to listen to you talk about culinary topics for once in my life. I don't want to hear about how the chicken corn chowder was too salty, nor how that broccoli salad ran right through you.

"Yo, are you listening?" Ronald prodded, visibly upset that Tonia's mind was somewhere other than his words.

Attention whore, Tonia thought. She had become quite good at internalizing her thoughts and filtering, so she put on her curious face; the one complete with semi-lowered eyebrows, head cocked to the right, and fixed what she dubbed her 'thoughtful gaze' on Ronald's shit brown eyes.
"I'm quite sorry, Ronald. You were saying?"

He smirked, an upturned lip complete with pecan crumbs and all, and said, "Oh, I was just wondering if you met the new Resident Asshole?"

Oh, someone's taking your place?, she thought. Filter, Tonia, filterrrrr.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't. Who might she be this time?" Tonia was thinking of the last Resident Asshole: Ms. Michelle Burton. Tonia preferred the title Resident Slut over Resident Asshole, seeing as Ms. Burton had no problem spreading her legs as easy as butter spreads on a hot day. It wasn't that Tonia had any prejudices against her, but after walking in to the conference room only to grab a stack of papers to collate, she caught more porno material than she ever would have needed in her entire life. Unfortunately for Tonia, it still haunted her to this day that she knew whether Ms. Burton was a moaner or a screamer.

"Yo! You're doing it again! Are you listening to me?" Ronald had apparently been speaking the entire time she had been daydreaming, going through the Rolodex of memories concerning Ms. Burton, up until the point when she got fired for screwing the FedEx guy on the copier, complete with butt faxes to each department.

I swear to God if you say "yo" one more time...As she mentally shook the image of Resident Slut out of her head, she spoke through gritted teeth, "Yes, Ronald, I am listening to you."

"Well, like I said, the new Resident Asshole is going to be ten times worse than the last one. He's such a pansy. I mean, look at him, he's got no meat on his bones whatsoever." Ronald lifted his elephant trunk of an arm and gestured to a dim-lit corner. Tonia followed his chubby finger's direction across the room, where it was pointed directly at Mr. Handsome himself, the only man who had caught her eye in several months.

Short Story: Part I

She knew as soon as she saw him. Call it woman's intuition, divine intervention, or what you will, but when Tonia's eyes scanned the room of party-goers, she knew she had to meet him. Work Christmas parties had always been the bane of her existence; she would spend two hours getting primped, curled, and plucked only to exit her boss's front door after an hour, one year leaving with wine spilled on her white blouse, another, bored to tears. Last year's Christmas celebration, she crawled out the bathroom window, bedecked in skirt and all, just so she could avoid having to say goodbye to everyone. At sight of the handsome newbie, Tonia mentally signed a contract in her head that she would not leave until after she had at least talked to him, or maybe, if the gods were on her side, she would have some digits in her pocket by the end of the night. Her lull of staring at the beautiful creature across the room was interrupted by Ronald coming into her view. And let's face it, how he could ever be out of one's view was beyond Tonia's comprehension.

God, she couldn't stand her fellow employee. Ronald was fat. There was no other way to describe his rotund girth, so saying he was fat was probably a mild remark in the realm of rudeness. It's not that Tonia couldn't have liked him because of his weight; she had several friends, men and women, who were larger than any of them knew they should be. What put Tonia over the edge with Ronald was his mouth. It was ceaselessly jabbering, the turkey neck below it swinging as words of undistinguishable meaning poured out of his mouth, the flow of which could be comparable to how a toddler dumps sprinkles on their sundae: very few sprinkles make it to the actual icecream bowl, and very few words actually made it to Tonia's ears.

She'd learned in the first two weeks at her job that the jar of MilkyWay Bars could not sit on her desk; they were like the scent of shit to flies. Once Ronald knew the candy bars were there, he would make laps outside of her office until she arrived, burning more calories during that fifteen minute wait than what he did all day. Making his rounds collecting mail overly slow, he would pretend that he had forgotten an envelope at the cubicles outside of her door. Upon her arrival, she would have to open her door with what sounded like a mastiff breathing down her neck, probably due to the exertion he had put forth in parading around the office. Sad as it is true, Tonia's highlight of her day came from the silence as she inserted her office key into the antique doorknob; her guess was that the combination of being out of breath from his "mail run" and the anticipation of the sugary goodness he was about to experience left Ronald speechless.

Head in the Clouds.

I eat my meals alone. Every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I normally spend in solitude, glancing up at stragglers gradually making their way to food (if you can call the chicken fingers, french fries, and soft serve ice-cream food). Before, I avoided the crowds and ate at off hours. Now, I thirst for the people, the faces of strangers. I have food in front of me, but I get my nutrition elsewhere; from the people's actions, expressions, and words around me. Conversations drift into my ears, which appear to be clogged with my earbuds and the sounds of Bon Iver and Dave Matthews, but really, I hear only the sounds of the bustling around me with my music on mute.
I gather inspiration from my fellow peers, although most of the time, they don't feel like 'peers' per say, seeing as I'm going to be twenty, and most of them act like they are pushing twelve. I must admit that despite the gap in my understanding of them and their comprehension of me, they do give me much material for which to write.
For instance, dinner for me today was spent, as usual, alone. Please don't misconstrue my words; the introvert in me craves to hear only my thoughts, and thus dinner alone is a blessing to me where most would consider it a very awkward curse. When you sit at a table alone, of course, no one is in front of you to block your vision, so I had a perfect view of a table right in my line of sight.
Three people sat at the table, but the one who caught my attention the most was the girl, side-kicked by two guys. She was in her late teens, early twenties, probably older than I, but one would never realize it by observing her; her body was that of a sprite, short in stature with limbs so twiggy that, had a butterfly flapped its wings, the wind from the motion would have sent her sprawling. The sprite-appearance was only emphasized more by her unruly blond hair, not curly but crimped and the leafy-green jacket she wore. Through my undercover earbuds, I could hear all about how she cheated on her exams by stealthily writing on her hands (probably with sprite-like speed). At one point she looked at me with such energy, I thought I could reach out and harness some for my own use. She was lithe and young, a spirit still maturing.
I'm not writing this because I admire her; it's difficult for me to admire anyone who takes the easy way out like cheating. But in her I found a spark of inspiration, something that made me pull out my laptop right on the spot and start writing.


I've decided I'm in need of a change, a bit of a makeover for Lauren. It would be nice to have the money to change my wardrobe because God knows there are numerous outfits out there I would kill to have, but more near and dear to my heart is the fact I'm finally ready to embrace my passion. As of next semester, I will be an English major, and I am determined to embrace what I was always meant to do.
I've had so many people tell me that I have a God-given gift or natural talent, but I don't see it. No matter how hard I try to appreciate my work, I cannot see my ability. I write because I want to do so, not because I think I am great at it. It is my therapy, my passion. Instead of majoring in English because I 'know' I'm good at writing, I'm doing so because I love it. If all I ever had was my laptop and time, I would write and write and write... stories, blogs, books, novels, poetry... You name it, I'd write it. Regardless of pay or who would read it, I would write. I think for me, that is the definition of passion.
So... I've decided my goal for the future is to put pen to paper every day, because as any artist knows, practice makes you better. I want to one day write a book where a reader can't move her eyes fast enough to satisfy her fervor for the plot; I want to write a poem about a child that when a mother reads it, it will move her to tears one line and have her laughing at the next; most of all, I dream of writing a character whom someone will connect with so well that the page is a mirror. Hey, why not dream big?

untitled.

I stand alone on the precipice,
an open mouth waiting to swallow me.
I turn my chin to the sky, tears gleaming
from moonlit rays. I beg my God to speak,
to send angles of white to my rescue,
for is that not how it works? Fear takes me,
too late for any rescue, even God's,
until I feel weightless, floating freely,
aimless drifting. There is no dark; no light;
only here and now. My lungs fill with air,
oxygen clinging to deprived cells like children
stretching mother's skirt to hide from the world.
I am in limbo, but a beauteous one,
where I am myself, and that is enough;
It is enough, for when I stir from sleep,
your arms are the air carrying me home;
my shelter from the stormy winds that blow
into my mind, but you are the fog rising,
and in your hands, your eyes, your lips, your grace,
in your compassion, I have found my God.