When Suddenly, You Become the Beholder

You know,
I've never seen eyes that color
The way the light reflects
Blue fading to brown fading to gold
I could stare into them all day
Mesmerizing

You are important
Your eyes and your heart and every part of you
The way your arms hold me so tight
And your mind holds hands with mine

Your eyes are the colors of October
Those quick responses and your brand new jersey
I see you and I'm okay
With the changing leaves and their changing minds

You know,
The beauty of it all
The light and blues and browns and golds
I'm looking at your eyes
And I see you
And the best part is
You see me too

jenna & braden & riley & me

we were at this lame high school dance.

the music was cliche and we were vulnerable.

it’s these kinds of moments that are so hard to describe because there were no words, just feelings,

and love is such an intangible thing

but when you have it in your hands, you know and you hold it so gently,

like how her hands were around my back and his were around my waist and i was looking into his eyes but it was so dark and all i could hear was her laughter and his awful singing and the too loud bass.

the lights and sophomores danced around the four of us, and suddenly it was just the four of us.

at the top of our lungs, every single lyric, swaying to the rhythm, embracing our clumsiness and lack of dance classes.

all eight eyes lit up and all four hearts happy and pounding, and i don't even care to remember anything else about that night.

me and him and her and him and having a crush is like being embraced by the three best people ever, not caring about what your hair looks like or how awful your voice sounds intertwined with Ed's angelic notes.

it was like realizing that life can feel infinite and crazy and wonderful, and even though we're stuck in this high school for the next eight months, we can still find special minutes like this that might freeze the time but make it move faster too.

the slow ballad was supposed to be romantic for those young lovers, but for us, oh for us it was drastically different.

it’s not that we were making fun of the pathetic excuse for romance, no, we were creating fun out of it, we were making it our own.

and i can only attempt to describe that moment

because words suck at their job sometimes.

Ode to Senior Year

Some people say that senior year is full of "lasts."

The last first day of school.

The last homecoming, the last winter formal, the last football games, the last prom.

The last time you’ll look over and see your friends at their locker next to yours.

The last time you’ll sit at that small desk with your backpack and books.

The last time you’ll eat lunch in that cafeteria, laughing with your friends.

The last time you’ll leave at the sound of that bell and the last time you’ll sit there for eight hours straight.

The last feeling of familiarity.

Sure, there are bound to be a lot of "lasts" during senior year, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any "firsts."

The first time you get to stand at the front during a football game without getting yelled at.

The first time you won't have pounds of painstakingly difficult homework every single night.

The first real high school party you get invited to, even though it's boring and you'll leave early.

The first time you'll be given authority, and you fight for yourself and your classmates.

The first time you play varsity (and actually do really well).

The first boy who actually likes you first.

The first feeling of freedom.

I suppose "firsts" and "lasts" go nicely hand in hand, just like we do.

Where to Write

Write in the morning, in a coffee shop bright and early.
Write in the park, under the biggest tree you can find.
Write in school, whenever you grasp a spare minute.
Write on the bus, no matter how sloppy your handwriting gets.
Write from the bathtub, careful not to drop your pencil within the bubbles.
Write on the porch, watching the sun set so beautifully.
Write before you go to bed, before you slip under the cool sheets alone.
Write at two o’clock in the morning, after a nightmare jostles you awake.
Write when you can’t fall asleep, scribbling every thought on a misplaced piece of paper.
Write in the middle of history class when you notice the peculiar spelling of a name.
Write on the floor in the gymnasium, sprawled against the wall with fingers flying.
Write during lunch, between bites of bagel and cream cheese.
Write in front of the mirror, because sometimes what’s on the outside does matter.
Write at home on the couch, in the place you feel the most safe; innocence will surface.
Write during college biology, take note of the DNA traits and make it into a sickening love story.
Write when you’re alone, the purest (and sometimes scariest) of thoughts come through.
Write when you’re with company, because loneliness is only good in proportion.
Write on your laptop, type rather, and close your eyes.
Write in your mind, where ink doesn’t run out and paper doesn’t tear.
Wherever you are, just write.
Either write or read.
Anywhere and everywhere.
You need to.

I began writing this piece in May of 2013 and finished it in May of 2015. I feel as though this is evident.

Quit Taking Your Health for Granted

They tell you about the symptoms of your diagnosis.

The headaches, the abdominal pain, the blood loss, the fatigue, etc.

They tell you about the side effects of your prescribed medications.

The dizziness, the more headaches, the nausea, etc.

They don’t tell you about all the moments in between.

They don’t tell you about the times when you’ll be doubled over on a public restroom toilet whimpering and silently cursing. Or the times when you’ll be afraid to drive because you’re not sure where you’ll be able to pull over. They don’t tell you about the times when you’ll be leaning over the side of your bed at midnight staring into the small trashcan trying not to throw up because you know it’ll just make everything hurt worse. Or when you’ll be silently crying in the Walmart parking lot because of the first embarrassing incident. Or when you’ll get those strange stares from your classmates because it’s the second time in one class period that you’ve asked to visit the nurse. Or how every other Friday you’ll have to wake up extra early just to calm yourself down in order to give yourself the shot in your stomach. They don’t tell you about the times when you’ll have to stay home from school just because you won’t be able to walk up and down the stairs more than once. They don’t tell you about the times when you’ll have to call your dad to pick you up from a basketball game after the first quarter because the lights and yelling make you feel like you’re going to pass out. They don’t tell you about being scared for your period to start again because you’ve already lost so much blood. They don’t tell you about the times when you’ll be excited to gain even one pound instead of losing five at a time. They don’t tell you about not being able to stay out late at night or eat at unknown restaurants or feeling so weak that you can barely put the dishes away.

They tell you about the basics.

They don’t tell you about real life.

Literary Teardrops

Maybe I like words because they blend in.

A work of art stands out; it’s colorful and beautiful and pretty.

I wrote a ten-page paper on the importance of art and did not once mention my love for the written word. In fact, I bashed my immense appreciation for language in order to promote the stroke of a brush.

Because I care about you.

I do. And I want you to know. But you would never use your talent to promote mine. You’d never portray the significance of a few strung together letters in order to make me feel, even for a second, like you don’t cringe at the thought of reading.

Appreciate me.

Appreciate me, and every metaphorical sacrifice I’ve made for you. It took me one day to decide my topic and two weeks to finish writing—about art.

But you.

You’ve had my book, my favorite book, or one of, for so long, for two months. You’ve held those words and that story hostage in your locker to collect dust just because I was stupid enough to think you’d want to share in my fictional wonderland. I was wrong, but I’m not sorry.

Not again.

I’ll throw these filled pages at your feet and hope the letters fly and hope the ink smudges on your too worn out shoes and maybe it will stain,

Because nothing else I’ve ever said has.

We Are Far Too Young and Clever

The minute I saw her and spoke to her, that's the minute I knew that she understood. She understood, on some deeper level, everything about me. And maybe she really didn't, but it sure felt like it.

I played that song for you in the car and you still didn't get it.

The very first chords thumped and we knew. I shot her a look and she grabbed my hand and we flew to the dancefloor.

Lights flashed, my face burned from the grins, and the room shrunk to fit just us and Dexy's Midnight Runners.

I don't know these people's names.

I like them.

I'm letting go.

Is this how Sam felt?

But she is fiction.

I am real, this is how I feel.

Right now.

I can feel those once awful memories attached to each note slip away into nothingness, and all that matters right now is the Living Room Routine and this girl who understands and these people I don't know but I wish I did.

Tuu rah loo rah tuu rah loo rah yay

We are spinning around. We lose ourselves. We slow down in time with the music and then speed back up, singing at the top of our lungs, not even caring that we sound horrible and our voices will be gone by the morning. My feet hurt from jumping and in one second, my hands are taken and we are running in a circle, flying and laughing and forgetting about everything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This song, this book, used to hurt me. It used to bring me down and make me speculate things that did not need to be speculated. But after that, after that frozen moment, something clicked. I'm building myself back up. I know who I am, and I'm embracing every part of me.

Whoever Eileen is, thank you for inspiring a timeless song and, ultimately, inspiring me.

Recreate and Repeat

"Document the moments you feel most in love with yourself - what you're wearing, who you're around, what you're doing. Recreate and repeat."
-- Warsan Shire

Tuesday, 8:17 p.m. - Sitting at my desk by myself wearing my dad's old gray crewneck and listening to the rain and listening to The Paper Kites and distractedly working on APUSH homework and feeling the cold breeze and daydreaming

Sunday, 1:51 p.m. - Jittering, anticipating the fashion show to start, sitting next to an old comforting friend, drenched in the soft glow of the stage lights, wearing a soft sweater and a small smile, listening to the loud thump of the DJ's familiar remixes, the lights go dark and everything makes sense

Tuesday, 9:39 p.m. - I'm lying in bed in shorts and a too big tie dye tee shirt. I'm telling my dad about my day. I flossed. I trimmed and filed my nails. I turned my fan back on. I took a standardized test. Today was good.

Wednesday, 8:57 a.m. - The windows are down, The 1975 is playing low, the warm wind is rushing lightly across my face, I'm wearing ripped up jeans and a gray shirt, I don't feel gray, I'm heading to another doctor's appointment, this is who I am, and that's okay with me

Recreate and repeat. 

Conclusions / Reminders

Work is hard. But it has to be done. Push through.

Take initiative. Be more focused on the process towards the goal instead of the goal itself. Nothing worthwhile will just fall into the lap of an expectant person.

Relying on people and taking advantage of people are two very different things that can easily be confused.

Know when it is acceptable to be honest with your limits and be kind to yourself, and know when you need to shut up and get it over with.

Remember that there are other ways to make money.

Sacrifices don't always have to be called sacrifices; that word is overwhelming. Also, they don't always have to hurt or impair.

Things usually tend to seem okay-er in the morning.

Talking to Myself Again

It's okay if the world is spinning

It's okay if it's going so fast that you can't keep up and it's okay that you're dizzy again and your head is pounding

Focus on the car door handle

Focus on the lock switch

Don't look at the streetlights whizzing by

Don't look at the guardrail turning into a steady blur

Don't look at the lake it's too cold and it would not feel nice to stay under for that extra second

Focus on the handle and the switch

It's locked

It's going to stay locked until the ground stops moving beneath you and your family

But the ground won't stop moving beneath you

But it's okay if the world is spinning

And it's okay if it won't stop