Broken Skulls

I don't want your self-less thoughts. They mean nothing to me unspoken.  Don't you understand that I can't feel those thoughts. Because they are merely thoughts.  I can't sense them.  I cannot hear them in your voice. I can't read them in your writing.  Why do you keep these thoughts contained by your skull?  Why even think them if you just hide behind a blank expression?  I want to hold these thoughts, memorizing them, fantasizing about their futures.  I want to break the skull and let the thoughts run as free as the pulsing blood from your harshly contained brain.  You are waiting for me to have the capability to read your mind. But I don't even know to try.  What isn't said, just isn't.  It isn't being, it isn't happening.  It is just an invisible cloud of thought, so untouchable.  No matter what the thought contains, it means nothing to me, it doesn't even exist to me.  Try and exist. Do this for me, do not be so self-less.  You're happiness matters. It matters to me.  What if I want the same as you?  Why hold back, when we could have it all.  For once, please break the skull.

“If somebody likes me, I want them to like the real me, not what they think I am. And I don't want them to carry it around inside. I want them to show me, so I can feel it too. I want them to be able to do whatever they want around me.”
-Stephen Chbosky from The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Worlds Collide.

Everyone has different worlds inside of them. Our perceptions and thoughts create a realm in which we live as individuals.  We can never fully understand how someone else thinks or what someone else's world looks like, because we don't live there. As much as we think we know someone, they have their secrets about them.  These things make us so insanely mysterious and different.
Our secret worlds make us incomparably distinct, and endlessly alone in life.
But there's something beautiful to the life alone, it means you can be different, and you can choose to let some one see your world, and you can choose to see someone else's.  There's intimacy formed when two people begin to breakdown their walls to share their life. There's trust in that, and there's love in it sometimes too.  Yes, perhaps the beauty of having your own world is finding someone to share it with.

Summer Lovin

While talking to my beautiful friend from New Zealand, I realized I missed a time when she and I, and a group of other amazing girls, all lived together in a blissful little place. We were camp counselors for an all girls camp in the mountains of North Carolina.  We did everything together. We shared hardships, stories, heart breaks, and sisterly love.  We all loved Jesus, and we were all were so different.  But I swear, those were some of the best days with them.  I remember we made a trek up to Catawba Falls.  We climbed to the top and slid our way over a mossy and slippery wet fallen tree to reach the rock where water fell over the cliff.  It was the most dangerous and uplifting thing I'd done.  I can close my eyes and still see the beautiful, clear mountain water as it flew past me.  Life won't ever be that way again, and I won't ever be with all those girls at once.  But I know I won't forget those times, and despite all the things that went down that summer, like being underpaid, gaining weight, losing a relationship, and taking care of 12 eight year olds at once, I'll always love my time in that camp.  It's not because of camp, but because of the girls that I have grown to love.  The mountains will never be as beautiful as they were that summer, and my friendships with those girls will never be forgotten.
I love yall.
Always will.

The mind's creation falls short.

Fantasies

The idea of someone you don't really know, is the most misleading thing.
We build and build a figure that won't withstand gravity.
An imaginary character that would only exist in a different world.
But here it can withstand it's figure.
It wobbles and strains to keep balance.
Something that perfect can't withstand.
Time starts to seep in the crevices,
Cracking the foundation,
Breaking the frames.
I stand holding the figure with arms sprawled out.
Grasping for a figure that is bound to tumble.
When it falls I will still be holding on.
Since it is my fantasy, I imagine a vine growing.
Attaching the broken pieces.
I think I have fixed the problem.
I take a step back to admire the creation.
Each step back is it uglier and uglier.
Because I am not God.
I cannot create a beautiful person.
I cannot create the man I need.
As much as I try, my plans are rubbish in comparison.
But this is something I have attempted for so long.
It is my creation and though it is horrifying and disgusting,
It is mine.
Soon it will fall and disintegrate.
And I will walk away.
This time looking for something real and living.

Who I am.

Who I am today is who I am.  The thought scares me.  I want to be so much more.  I want to be someone that doesn't exist. I'm not skinny enough, or smart enough, or stylish enough, or fun enough, or witty enough, or happy enough, or Christian enough, or loving enough.  I am just this.  This is all.  This is who I am.

Roots.

Late Night Stories.
A short tale of heartbreak.

He saw her. Some kind of look she had.  She had a sadness about her you can't repair, just one that you had to love.  The sadness that made the happier times better.  Their time kept brief, but just enough to realize something was real and planted inside.  The roots were shallow but protruded into the areas of the brain that never really make sense when analyzed. The parts of the brain that have no explanation, but is categorized as feeling. Feelings like a fluttering heart, shakes down to the shins, and makes your body tense.  The roots grew over time, but they got tangled somehow. The twisted roots grew but never got deeper.  But they still trigger a soft feeling of attraction.  Like stepping into a wet puddle, it doesn't consume you, but you feel it.
The triggers start with a familiar combination of characters.  Bringing the feelings back but stronger, because even though the roots haven't grown deeper, they are twisted up creating thicker and over-lapping roots. In every denial she can't shake the growth that as lane dormant for so long. The memories rush back like a blood rushes to a fresh deep wound. And it hurts her, she's bleeding out.  the trigger made a large impact, because it ignites more than memories. It brought to life the confusion and regret and flowed like a river into the open air.  Now there is pressure to make things right, the way things should have been.  But time isn't on her side, and as she stares at the pool of blood and realizes without the blood the roots will die soon.  She stands with her head down, eyes closed, hands close enough to her eyes to catch the tears.  Time never stops despite her despair. She only has days left before the roots run dry and so does the hope of ever having been.