I need a life where that doesn’t exist.

Or the strength and self confidence to manifest it.

Because the ideal is rarely anymore than a pipedream.


I am on the verge of getting everything out. I’m still a little scared, but I think I’m getting closer.

It might hurt, but it’ll be so freeing.

And I’ll get myself back a bit. I’ll get my writing back.

I still can’t believe of all the consequences, the one I am suffering from is one that I never even considered: I lost my writing.

I haven’t written in so long

I was going through an old writing folder on my hard drive and I found some things that reminded me of writing. I used to write a lot more than I do now.. a HELL of a lot more. I don’t even know how to write anymore. Here’s one I found, that I actually like. The imagery is what I like best. I was really in touch w th my feelings. I cant write about my feelings anymore. I dont KNOW what I’m feeling. I suppress things because I don’t want to do with the truth. So cowardly. Really, I’ve allowed myself to do whatever I want for so long. Mostly though this just reminds me of when I was inspired. I’m not inspired. Really haven’t been in a while. I think I just have ultimate writers block. Once I didn’t-

So she sat still, staring into the dark abyss of her life. Mutely thinking, wishing she could escape this jail cell. Last thing she wanted was to live this semester alone. But here, as the dark days roll by, nothing is the same. Her dreams of tomorrow constantly fall away, still unknown to the naïve world. And no one can taste her or believe she’s still unoccupied. The campus residents tauntingly laugh below her window as if to purposely drive her toward it- to drive her through it. To watch her fall gracefully toward an overdue death. Her roommate sits atop their bunk bed, unconscious from their night of free booze and boys. Also still tangled in her sheets, the girl envies her dormant mate. Such quiescence would mean to feel no real misery. And to dream is to, for once, feel truly alive.
The afternoon sun dangles behind the shades, waiting for even the slightest opening before it can explode and devour the heavy-headed two. In the distance the campus bell rings three times, scolding the girls for sleeping past two in the afternoon. A slight moan is heard above and both resign from sleeping any longer. To keep ones self from being too pathetic is key. Sliding out of her warm sanctuary she steps down onto the matted down carpet and peers into the cabinet mirror. Green eyes clouded behind crusted day-old eyeliner stare back, pleading for something new. Her mouth sticks shut and her tongue tries to escape from its dry cotton cell. The scent of stale rum still lingers in her hair. She looks beside her as the thin frame of her only confidant wraps itself into a ball atop a desk chair. The two stare at one another for a moment until one of them says, “Life is arduous.” The other responds with a knowing nod and the two privately crave their drugs of choice. The room reeks of despondence.
The girl lets her sweat stained garments slide off her body and she hugs herself into a cheap cotton bathrobe, all too ready to wash her soiled skin; clogged from last nights charades. Her mind is still groggy and hazed. Undoubtedly, she’s still intoxicated- though only slightly. Just able to bend down, she finally clutches onto her showering bag and makes her way out the door to begin her walk of shame. Female dorm mates shake their heads knowingly as she drags herself into the showering room. Her face is fastened into an ungovernable glare. She is a revolutionary and thus, the enemy. Claiming the farthest stall from the door, she lets the scalding water beat on her body as she stands there motionless. Her mouth forms the words, “Damn hypocrites,” and laughs at the irony of her situation. Suppressing their desires to have fun causes half of these conservative Christian schoolgirls to become pregnant and subsequently marry into an endless legacy of loveless companionship. Yet the ones who indulge freely are labeled as black sheep and usually go on to live successfully. Lather, rinse, repeat. She’s a third floor secret. She ruins the name of the university. She is the hate and the envy of everyone. Soap rushes toward her bare toes and she rolls her eyes. These showers are filthy.
To think that at home her reputation was one of angelic innocence and yet here, she is the reason that they pray, is laughable. Cryptic messages left on the whiteboard hanging from her dorm door yelling ‘God is watching you!’ prove that they are a red flag. The missionaries try to convert them, the authorities tries to enforce law on them, the good-doers try to befriend them and everyone else simply cast their gazes elsewhere. They give the dormers reason to gossip, and thus, are really the life line of this third floor (south side) girls dormitory.
As she steps from the rectangular shower and folds her hair into a turban towel wrap, her clean figure does nothing for her cynical thoughts. Back through the hall, she comes face to face with a Confronter.
“What you’re doing is a sin,” the girl who has never lived says through angry lips.
“Knowing that people lead such mediocre lives as your own is reason enough to keep me living in debauchery for years,” she responds, staring deeply into the Confronter’s eyes, searching for any glimpse of a soul. Nothing. She leaves the girl standing and returns to her domain.
Her roommate is gone. The lights shine yellow and illuminate the Andy Warhol posters and the piles of clutter as the stereo streams a Bob Dylan album. CDs and books topple from one place to another and she feels at ease. Slipping her legs into cotton shorts and throwing on a t-shirt, she is lured toward her own computer chair. Yet, for once, she leaves the laptop untouched and instead clutches a yellow pad. Passed pages of relentless venting, she comes across a clean slate of paper and writes only one sentence with her coal-tipped pencil.
“Nothing is certain.”
Knowing there will be not a single message from the only person whose voice she craves, she dials her voicemail. Nothing. Her lonesome heart is so familiar that it is almost a comfort. A comfort she’s all too willing to rid of.
Breaking up is like kicking a cocaine habit. You end it because you know it’s no good for you. But the cravings are so strong and the withdrawal is excruciating. They’re all you think about- you want one last time with them. One last hit to make you feel better. And so you call them, find them, visit them and suddenly the excruciation is replaced, though only momentarily. And you think to yourself, ‘Why am I giving this up anyway?’ That’s where she was in life and you could hear her say things like, “But I can see us together someday.” Though she had ended the relationship, she felt completely dejected and craved punching him and loving him at the same moment. Unstable and unsure, the girl was a walking example of a transient bipolar disorder.
Her name was beautiful and odd and unnerving. To have her name slide off one’s tongue would be to utter a sacred poem in some long forgotten language. A language and poem forbidden to touch any humans’ lips for the rest of time due to their tendency of ruining lives with their unadulterated honesty. To save all of humankind she changed it to Evance and left the scholars to ponder other things.

Summa summa summa time

I can’t sleep past 9:30 anymore! I want to sleep forever, but no matter what time I go to bed, I wake up round the same time. Maybe tonight, when I go to bed completely sober, it’l be different.

Last night was fun, except for the fact that Britt got all uncomfortable and left.  Except for the fact that I said something that I wishhhh I hadn’t. Except for the fact that I got blamed for Shannon wanting to smoke my cigarettes and Ed talking stupid spanish at me. That made me mad. “He can get a cigarette from someone else..” Yeah but he shouldn’t have to because theres no valid reason anymore for animosity. Its in the past. Fortunately the majority of the night was a good time, and Joe apologized for blaming me over things I have no control over. I don’t even care now that I think of it. Fucking stupid.

Anyway off to eat and have a nice cold iced tea and do whatever I want.

I knew her when winter was her cloak

Changes.  I can’t wait to not be with my mom for awhile. Ugh, she really annoys me. Regardless, home soon. I’m surprised I miss home. But I do. That’s great. I have a great life. Why run from it?

Sometimes you need to leave to realize what you want has been there.


Like the story of the bum who sat on a pot filled with gold begging for pennies. He never realized all he needed was right there.

I’m having a nice time so far but most importantly I appreciate my life so much more, thinking of all the wonderful people I have thousands of miles away. But I also realize how inconsequential a lot of things back home are. Life is relevant. If I was here, nothing back home would matter.

It puts everything into perspective I suppose.