Dry-Eyed Rehab

This one is a working progress... You are at a disadvantage because you are out of my crazy thought process. Forgive me if it doesn't make sense. But definately let me know either way. Thanks!

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Lie down right there on the green leather sofa.
So, I hear you think you've forgotten how to cry
Or that your tears are all dried up.
I'm going to show you some images that will cure you
And release those tears that cry, "Hold, hold!"

See, the woman weeps for her only child
Whose dim-lit eyes stare past her to glory.

Or the birth a a healthy boy
Who wasnt expected to breathe longer than a few minutes.

Or this one, your friend,
Whose mother unleashes her anger that leaves physical scars.

Or here, the friend who unleashes
Her own anger, guilt, shame upon her self in the form
Of physical scars.

And this (Don't turn your head, look back this way),
of the love promised for you that he lavishes her with.


And yet, your eyes remain parched?
-[aside]This disease... is far beyond my practice.
Have the strings of her heart untied, or the stream of her tears
forgotten how to flow?-
Miss, you're bleeding There, just above your left eye.
Looks like a scratch or a paper cut...
Let me fetch you a bandage--
It's widenening-- Oh! Hold this over your head...

_______

That's a nice looking gash you got there.
-[to nurse]She's losing blood fast-
A wound from years ago? You don't say.
How did it reopen, Dear? Come now, think hard.
Hold still, this might sting a bit.
-Cauterize the edges-
What a brave young woman you are!
You haven't shed a tear.
What's that? Don't be silly.
You can't forget how to cry.
-The skin around her eyes is too dry.
The wound will never heal itself-
Just one more thing...
-Cover it with sillicon skin-
See there, no one will ever know
that the wound was there.

Bucket Lists and Jellyfish

I think i'll add "get stung by a jellyfish" to my bucket list.

I swear there's logic in my thought process that led to this conclusion.
A friend and I began talking about bucket lists a few days ago, and the subject has attatched itself to the back of my mind since. Bucket lists introduced itself to the subject of jellyfish -- a subject stemmed from my fear of swimming in the ocean at night. Bucket list and jellyfish hit it off right away, and the two collaborated to make a revelation.
Are you still with me?
If I add a painful, unpleasant experience like getting stung by a jellyfish to my bucket list, then in the event that said experience occurs, I'll have met one of my goals and I'll have an interesting story to write about.
Still confused?
People write what they know(or at least they should). If I got stung by a jellyfish or experienced some other unfortunate event, I would gain authority to confidently write a story based on the incident. I hate pain as much as the next pansy, but my inner Bronte and Dickinson welcome the experiences in a twisted way.

She writes in third person and daydreams

She has so much fun writing about herself in third person. When people are written about in third person, as in a story, it usually indicates that something extraordinary is going to happen to that person.

______________________________

Secretly, she wonders if she will ever be able to put up with a guy's flaws long enough to date him, marry him, and grow old with him.

She thinks, perhaps, she should just get a dog.

______________________________

She knows the guy she is going to marry.

She doesn't know what he looks like or where he lives. Or how old he is or what kind of job he has. But she knows about him. He's respectful, friendly, and personable. Confident, not arrogant. When a stranger talks to him, he talks back instead of awkwardly avoiding conversation. People like to be around him. He isn't clingy, but he enjoys every second he is with her.

Above all, he loves God more than anyone or anything on earth, even her. He prays for her, and she prays for him.

She can't wait to meet him.

She sits in the bookstore

She sits in the bookstore at a table with only a journal and a pencil to keep her company. She secretly wishes a stranger would ask her what she is writing. Why she is alone.
She would tell the stranger about how she is meeting someone here in an hour, but until then she is scribbling random anecdotes in hopes of capturing a brilliant line or two. These she would store away for that novel she's always wanted to write.
Instead, no one talks to her. In fact, she is fairly certain no one is even looking at her. Which is perfect since she plans to people-watch in a few minutes.
Suddenly she begins to judge herself.
She is insane.
She is insane and creepy and secretive.

Just like a writer.
Mission accomplished.

________________________________

More to come from her. Don't know when she will decide to publicly share more anecdotes, though. She is kind of self-conscious about some of them. I'll try to persuade her to post more sometime.

A Freedom Writer

I've been running away from my stress so much lately that the pounding of it's footsteps behind me are inevitable. I can't ignore it any longer. Taking a deep breath helps, but that's a difficult task when you feel like you are being smoldered by a pillow. A pillow made of sandpaper.
Don't get me wrong. Life is a wonderful thing, but the wearing and tearing is getting to be a bit much for me. I find myself wandering aimlessly in my mind, searching for something like aloe vera on a sunburnt back. Something to sooth my aching heart, something to rest my tired mind.
But I sat down at my computer and just started writing. Almost immediantly I began to feel like all of the worthless thoughts I had floating in my mind didn't matter and I could just be free. Free to succeed. Free to be someone. Free to give my ideas a voice. How awesome is that?

What do you do that makes you feel free?

Wants

I want to live and never be tamed
I want to dance and never be shamed
I want to sing and never know silence
I want a storm without the violence
I want a love without pain
I want crazy but not insane
I want to dance to my own song
I want a river to run along
I want peace
I want grace
I want hope
I want second chances
I want serenity
I want forgiveness
acceptance
life
freedom
joy.

Letters from a Hillcrest Detention

Did you know that tallow is the solid fat taken from the natural fat of cattle to my soap? I do now! I spent the past hour copying definitions from a dictionary with print too small for an ant to read. Detention is another world, my friend.
Our supervisor (we will call her Ms. Gertrude) continuously told us to "shut up" because, dad gum it, she wasn't going to talk over anyone, "especially not detention kids." Yes, "detention kids" are not like normal kids. We are bad kids. Our mothers didn't raise us like normal kids' mothers raised them.
Heaven forbid one of us shifts in our seats or so much as breathes the wrong way. No noise, or you can join Ms. Gertrude next Thursday for another exciting episode of All My Wayward Children. One guy (we will call him Fredward) whispered something to his buddy, um, Marvin and, Oh! how Gertrude squawked. Once he pulled the bird's tail, there was hell to pay. Poor Fredward didn't have a chance.
"But I wasn't talking."
"You most certainly were talking. Want me to call Mrs. Thomas up here?"
"No, ma'am, but I --"
"Do not get loud with me. Do not get loud. Mrs. Thomas would love to take you --"
"Everyone in here will tell you that I didn't even--"
[picks up handy-dandy walkie talky that they give only the cool faculty] Mrs. Thomas, Mrs. Thomas, please come to the library. Immediately." By her tone I would have thought a kid got impaled by a stray flaming arrow or internally combusted, but talking during detention would have been my third guess. At least there were no machetes. (Machetes? Yeah, a kid at out school shanked another kid after detention this semester. Go Patriots!)
I made a new friend in detention. When I walked in the library, (the artist formally known as...) Martha, said I could sit by her. I placed my bags at her table and could already tell she had been here before. She got her paper and pencil out and placed them on the table. I followed suit and retrieved my paper and pencil.
"Oh my gosh! I've always wanted to use one of those pencils!"
I looked at her, expecting her to grin smugly, insinuating a joke. Instead, she eagerly waited for me to offer my super cool mechanical pencil to her. Of course I let her use it.
Gertude's alternate ego let us out twenty minutes early. Oh, happy day!

Detention. Keeping us in line, one definition at a time.