Category: Essay

Beginning with Pity

I felt it nearly a week later.

Hunkered down in my bedroom, I laid there with my legs strewn over one side of the air mattress. The whir of the plastic fan – which no longer turns in many directions – gave me my favorite white noise.

It doesn’t really matter.

In the other room, my father’s droopy eyelids fight with themselves on how long they can stay open. Usually, they fall back down within five minutes. Sleeping off the drunk haze, I sometimes wonder if he even dreams then.

The sunlight creates long, thin rectangular lines on the opposite side of my room. Hung over the blinds, I have a tapestry with two binder clips attached to either side. Laying there, I grovel in how much the past year flew by. The amount of heartache I self-inflicted with myself encourages me that I shouldn’t open up to people anymore. I won’t tell as many people that I love them. Each time, I trekked through the woods with spray painted tree trunks, hobbled in my converse sneakers through a small stream, and felt the warmth of a fire in the middle of an abandoned building – I missed a part of myself.

It doesn’t really begin how you think it does.

This daunting act of finding myself starts whether haphazardly. Whenever, I spend time alone – it can happen one or two ways. By definition, I am an introvert who succumbs to a hermit lifestyle. I have a phone, a notebook, food (mostly bread and snack things), and music. I’m set, right? Yet, other times I lay curled onto my bed with the frustration that the soreness in my back will not leave. Enacting the U-curl pattern of a caterpillar, I can’t seem to sit with myself.

I don’t want anyone to get me anything.

Six days and a few hours, I felt the tremendous weight of how alone I felt. It’s an invisible pain I suppress that resurfaces when I’ve buried my true self so far into the ground.

In the other room, my mother would lay outstretched on the living room couch. Half listening (and mostly sleeping), she enveloped herself in the biblical history YouTube videos. Our house would make the only sounds of two different TVs on either side of the apartment, the whir of my fan, and the tremendous amount of sorrow I felt on my birthday.


Four letters of instability

I won’t be ready for love
A dim light illuminating an alley
Because I want myself
You and I
To come home,  safe
I won’t be ready
For it’s salted wounds
Leaving scabs on the skin
Pressing cotton bandages on it,
Rubbing it with ointment
Because I love
In that way only
I won’t be able to remain selfless
When I want the best for you
I want the best for you
Even if I’m not ready to go with you
I won’t be ready to cry
Pound my fists into your chest
Sobbing that it’s not meant to be like this
No flowery gardens
No steam rising out of the kettle
Because you put two sugars in your tea
And take your coffee black
As midnight.
I won’t be ready to see our children
In you
And them in us
No matter how many times we won’t get it right
I won’t be ready even if I want to be
I mean it’s careless that’s all
A girl who has had her heart set on one
One day, one month, one year
To obsess over the collars of a shirt
Ridges around your knuckles
Encompassing your face
As if one day I’ll forget it
But I won’t…
I won’t be ready for love
Like springtime afraid of blooming
Hiding behind the backs of winters
Peering out like a child from behind their parents
For the first day of school
Now looking distinguished and alright
For the last day of school
I won’t be ready for that love
Where it’s sickening to want it to be right
When it should be enough
To be here
Honest to say I’m afraid
That I won’t be ready
To love…

We are who we are: an analysis of a literature feen

I relate to all of the stories I have read, although I have never traveled to any lands afar than my country. I have not scurried around the earth seeking refuge in a new place, where I hope to see something I have never felt before. Literature has been and will continue to be the definition of the last straw and a better time to come. It will drive you in the dark professing a love that can only be labeled as dangerous, but each time it feels better than being safe.

When I was a young girl stacking Nancy Drew books by my waist side in the library, I thought there was nothing better than being teleported halfway into life without knowing what would happen next. Its suspense of turning each page adamantly hoping to find answers, though when answers were not found I hugged each book close to my chest. I clung to it as if this is who I was; a heroine, a villain and alas something more…human. The bravery of the American Girl books, The Royal Diaries and C.S. Lewis’ books triple-dog-dared me to be brave. I don’t suppose there is anything wrong with not being brave but there is some level of fear that makes us move forward. I don’t remember exactly when I began writing or why, it was a natural inclination that these words must come out and I cannot suppress them any longer. On Mother’s Day in 3rd grade I wrote a poem so enmeshed with emotion it would reflect a love letter. Now I remind you that I fought with my mother as most young children do when planning their birthday party that their mother knew nothing about until the day before. More than ten kids were coming with an invitation mimicking the Lisa Frank era. I fought extra hard to squeeze the words out of my hand, straining past my wrist and finally onto the paper how much I loved her.

People do not write to be read. No? One writes to let go of the things that happen around them or in them that can no longer reside in themselves alone. In retrospect, people who read for the sake of reading; gather information quickly, skimming over certain parts to find the right plug-ins and scarcely see craft, perhaps. Those who cherish books dearly, clinging them to their chest, missing nights of valuable sleep and discussing endlessly why the book was brilliant or completely terrible are people I fall in love with. You see it isn’t about whether the book was necessarily good enough to make the Best Sellers list, no it was the book simply being given the opportunity to be read.

When I was in high school, we read the novel ‘Lord of the Flies’ and had to write an enormous essay concerning it. Oh, how much I hated the book. I groaned and wailed that it was awful, while slipping in words of what it was actually about in as well. Our class analyzed it and those who felt comfortable enough to enter the round table discussion taking place in the middle of the classroom, stated their stance. The maracas shook and our teacher added more insight to what she felt would be valuable in our prompt. What themes were represented? What about good versus evil? At the end of the semester, I complained about the book entirely too much but I remembered it for what it was. I remembered the literary jokes that came with it and I remembered it enough to be like most people who brag carelessly oh yes, I have read that book. What do you mean you haven’t?

Literature revolves the universe, whether it’s fan-fiction, sci-fi or good ol’ Jane Eyre. Literature has a place whether we have experienced most of its stomach contents or not; love,lust,jealousy, goodness, evil and existentialism. By default, we have experienced all of these.

When I was a young girl thumbing through the seventeen magazine at the age of twelve in the doctor’s office, I realized words have a way of changing what we believe and who we say we are. Words are significant far as image, but it doesn’t mean we will not change our mind what we think later on.