Daydreams and Writing

Hey there, lovelies! It’s good to see you again. I’m going to be posting a series of works from a Creative Writing class I took last semester. I think the course gave me the opportunity to really work my craft and stretch. At the end of each work I’ll talk a little bit about the inspiration, process, and subtle meanings in the work. I hope you enjoy this one!

If I am smart, I catch my daydream before it floats away into the abyss. I station myself at my computer, chaining myself to the keys as I begin to think about typing. I sit and think about it so meticulously, resetting the font and fixing my margins before I settle into my desk chair to propose moving away from my desk in a whirlwind. I spin round and round in my swirling swivel chair until I hit the edge of my bed, picking up my laptop and propping up my feet to type. I taste test a few words and phrases, frantically spitting them back out, the stark blue-white  of my blank page beginning to burn my retinas. Finally I discover my fault.

I need a theme for this piece. How could I possibly imagine writing another word of this dribble if I can’t even imagine when its published and inevitably adapted into a film? I push my blank page to the side and open a slew of photo editors, not-so-quickly whipping up the future book cover of my New York Times bestseller. I put it on the blank page proudly until another blank page follows suit.

I begin to look around desperately for a sign, listening closely to the faintest whisper of an idea. My eyes land on a blank space, a pair of ethereal eyes materializing before me. They’re followed by a faintly shaped mouth and mess of hair, a full ambiguous body holding it all together. I narrow my eyes to look more closely at them, their familiarity unnerving. I move to name them and stop. This person can’t be named in such a haphazard manner.

I turn back to my laptop and pull up a deep catalog of names , the meanings and origins attached. My eyes sway between the list and their face, more details forming with each name rejected. Finally I land on something good enough, landing in the grey space between generic and difficult to pronounce. I test the name on my tongue, the slew of letters rolling smoothly off my tongue like warm butter. The figure is delighted by the sound, their ambiguous form making a joyful gesture.

I return to my blank page, the bane of my existence. My newly named figure walks over to me to bear witness to the lack of commotion. We both stare at the glowing screen for a while in deep conceptual thought. The figure of ambiguity leans down, bringing a nearly silent whisper to my ear. My fingers stretch around the keys as quickly as I can, trying to catch every word they have to say. The words are jumbled and messy at first, but with each new letter we begin to find their voice and untangle the kinks in their story. Soon I have a shiny picture of their face on my nightstand, their smile as clear as day.


My struggle with the prompt (write about writing) was that my personal relationship to writing has never had anything to do with writing. It’s always been about the interesting people I come across or the characters swimming around in my subconscious. I tried to portray that relationship’s importance the best I could. Writing for me is also tied to my intensive daydreaming as a way to capture those ideas onto paper.

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Where Youth and Laughter Go

Hey there, lovelies! It’s good to see you again. I’m going to be posting a series of works from a Creative Writing class I took last semester. I think the course gave me the opportunity to really work my craft and stretch. At the end of each work I’ll talk a little bit about the inspiration, process, and subtle meanings in the work. I hope you enjoy this one!

Flawed Crystals:

I keep my eyelids sealed tight,

the tightness of muscles slowly succumbing

to the weight of life and death in one vessel.

I drag him–

or what he once was–

behind the neighborhood of wooden framed houses

and futuristic dreams

I must drag him

with crimson fingertips

and a blank mind.  I accept my cowardice

as we walk through the darkness. The dirt

gives way to its fallen king

(or maybe its homecoming prince)

the indention the sizing of sorrow.

The hush of fallen leaves,

sound like bittersweet sizzle

beneath my feet as I let my

tears fall to quench

their insatiable thirst

for more blood.

 

My darling malediction

rests in his linen casket,

the bend of skeletal elbows and knees

bubbling across the surface.

I must rest here,

sit on the beheaded stump,

to accompany the weight and ache

of my sins.

I rest my eyes,

letting the veiny lids close

to see his decaying bronze eyes. The pupils

follow my dreamlike gaze like ducklings

follow their mother across still waters

(maybe still water is where you belonged),

and shadow hands left their familiar prints

across the canvas of my neck. I’m awake

before the air leaves my lungs.

My fingers grasp the tail

of the rotting and dark cocoon

as I begin to walk slowly

with ache in my shoulders

and injury slowly corrupting

the shallow chambers

of my faded heart.

 

The Loop:

The clearing rips away the chance of escape

and I am a lonely figure crossing it.

Your voice slithers into my ears,

every whisper like a piercing wail

for mercy or vengeance

(or worse merciful vengeance

from the realms of the afterlife.)

While you rest across the collection of crossed branches

I look for my breath

faint pants of nervousness

too small to elicit

the most infant flame.

 

I am the Libra,

balancing your life between heaven and hell:

hell for the eternal flame you gave me,

and heaven as the birthright

to my fallen angel

(although the last of your kind

crawled into the depths of hell.)

I am the slave turned master–

you found comfort in the recklessness

of your ancestors

while I searched for my reparation

in the wake of your apathy.

We fluctuate our power

although I always had to rip mine back

with carnivorous fangs.

 

I grasp this bag’s zipper

to look at your pale face once more,

ebony hands grasping

your chilled cheek

(the flames will warm you beautifully dear

just you wait and see.)

Trembling fingers grasp the smallest matchbox,

smoothing the side grooves with my thumb

and then a matchstick

to cast away the nights unbreaking darkness

and to drop in my beauty’s resting bed of branches.

 

Glimmer of God:

In the dark of night

flames of bonfire burns brilliantly,

consuming the ailment of what once was.

Two shadows creep behind in its wake,

the scales of insanity and humanity in each of their hands.

The first shows its face to speak.

 

In the fight for bravery

we lose our ability to grasp at the tendrils

of what made us so courageous at all.

The dreams of tomorrow never meant anything,

not to you whose mind had been poisoned

by those who remain imprisoned

by the idea of destiny manifested.

 

This bondage was not yours to inherit

and your malediction

was never your benefactor.

You have the body of a woman

and the mind of a forgotten generation

left behind by their ability

to see the world as it always has been

all too quickly–

 

The second shadow consumed the first,

the dark tangle of arms and legs

twisting into one entity. The scales

teetered side to side in their indecision.

The second crawls towards the light to speak.

 

Your lionheart will tear away at you

faster than any flame

could singe your brow.

It will become easy to run from the horizon

while your eyes beg nothing more

than to watch the burning hues.

But be warned–

 

With safety bears the beginnings

of an apathy,

tearing away the walls of your stomach

until it rips the inner chambers of your heart.

His jaded eyes will become your own

in an attempt to become a memory

that you will become successful

to forget.

 

The shadow receded back into the dark,

the scales dropping into the fire

with flames of the same color

taking flight into the air.

 

In the Dark:

As the fire dies out and decomposes into ash, hellfire consumes his body, slowly reviving his ashen limbs. He will walk for days before reaching the rose colored apartment door, bruised knuckles knocking against wood. Its hinges will whine desperately as it opens and reveals a pair of doe eyes he had once looked into fondly. Her eyes will shift around under the gaze of her predator and the slow ache of their oscillation. He’ll walk in and shower away her betrayal before climbing into bed, wrapping skeletal limbs around her corpse before his mind is consumed by the dark.


This piece is ideally the first draft of a bigger project. I’ve been very attached to the album Blonde lately, especially since listening to it sends me into an intense daydream sequence I’d like to bring to life at some point. Writing in narrative verse was inspired by the book Blood Water Paint and the title comes from Siegfried, a veteran turned poet. This one of my favorite pieces I’ve done and I’m excited to see what else I can do with it.

11.11.18_9:15PM.docx

I don’t really have an audience in mind when I sit down to write something. Everything I write is entirely selfish, but I think that’s what makes it work. Tonight however, I’m writing with a very specific person in mind. I’ve been thinking about them and people like them a lot lately, and I don’t know if it gives me strength or hope or if it makes me want to die more than I already do.

I’m filled with a lot of compressed rage. It comes over me in sickening waves until I force myself to laugh or smile again. I oscillate between desperately wanting to be alone and being crippling lonely. I want to do everything right now and also never have to do anything ever again. I want to cry but I sit for hours thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking while my eyes remain dry. It’s an exhausting state of living, and I’m not sure how anyone ever does it.

I forget that my emotions aren’t all isolated incidents, but it’s easy to do so for someone who doesn’t address them outwardly all that often. That’s another reason why I write at all—it’s an indirect way for me to yell at the universe that I’M NOT DOING REALLY GREAT RIGHT NOW and that IF I COULD CATCH A BREAK, THAT BE REALLY GOOD. Please and thank you.

I like thinking of the other side when my life will be working out exactly as I want it to, but that idealism is utter bullshit. I’m never going to be happy if happiness means having my life together. I’m trying to force myself to be happy in my mess, but right now I’m more upset by my inability to make changes for myself.

I’m chipping away at my apathy, bit by bit. I worry sometimes that my lack of steam is going to bite me in the ass any minute, but I always cut it close enough. I worry that my inability to put my blinders on is going to drive me insane with jealousy towards my peers because anything has to be better than my life, right?

I’m growing sick of living in an echo-chamber of my own voice. I’m pretty sick of everyone else too, to be honest with you.

To put it simply, John Mulaney once said, “Do My Friends Hate Me or Do I Just Need to Go to Sleep?” While the sentiment is relatable and appealing, I’d say that at the moment I’m more “Do I Hate My Friends or Do I Just Need to Take a Nap?”

That’s another thing, my dear. I’m tired all the fucking time now. Not just physically. We’ve got the trifecta: Emotional, Mental, and Physical! I could sleep for 24 hours and I’d still be falling over in exhaustion. Most of my energy has gone into over analyzing how I’m handling my life and being paranoid about whether or not I actually trust or love anyone.

I feel like slowly going insane.

Friend, I’m becoming delirious and sad (nothing new or special) so I’ll have to stop writing. I wrote a poem about eating last night. It was a Saturday. It made me so sad that I went and sat in a car parking lot for two hours.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m doing wonderfully and everything is exactly how I’d like it to be. I’m genuinely considering flipping my body clock to knockout at 6pm and wake up at 2. I’m truly in my prime.

 

Lovers Rock

Clara looked like a barbie doll whose hair had been chopped off haphazardly. The thought burned in the back of Adam’s brain as he watched her on the other side of the bed. She leaned against the headboard, long legs splayed across the cheap and tattered covers, her eyes closed and her head tilted back. He liked the way her eyebrows jumped every now and again to the beat of the music while she swayed back and forth. Playing the record had been her idea, although he had no idea how he’d managed to find a way into finally getting time alone with her.

Maybe it was be a part of their little game. Adam was playing his part, he knew that much; he hadn’t stayed up past two in the morning since high school. Clara stayed up just so she could watch the sun sink down in the horizon only to float back up into the sky a few hours later. She had said it herself once when they were going their separate ways after a night of avoiding conversation with each other. He wouldn’t mind watching it too if it meant that he could be with her a little bit longer. Maybe it’d convince her that he deserved a chance, if not just for the night.

Adam sighed, resting his head in his hand, his shoulder propping him up as he laid on one side, trying desperately not to fall asleep to the lull of the record playing. He almost jumped when Clara’s eyes opened again, warm hazels finding his dark brown ones across the bed. She moved closer to him until they were face to face in the same position. Her smile made Adam want to scream his passions out the window.

“You ever heard this one before?” she murmured, her words slurring together with residual drunkenness. Adam shook his head, paused a moment, and nodded, his tight curls bouncing softly against his forehead.  Clara giggled, the sound feeling the fuzzy in Adam’s ears. Clara raised a hand and ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him in a little closer. Her nose crinkled as her smile grew wider and her eyes more dazed.

“You’re hair is so…frizzy,” she snickered. Adam laughed along, closing his eyes for a few seconds as he breathed her in, remembering the scent for later.

“Well yeah. It’s an afro after all.”

Clara tapped a finger against her full pink lips, her eyebrows scrunched together. “I guess that makes a lot of sense.”

“I guess it does.” They sat and watched each other. To Adam’s recollection, this had to be the longest conversation they’ve ever managed to have. If he really dug into his mental archive, this was the longest amount of time that Clara had ever acknowledged his existence. The thought made his insides swirl around.

“Y’know, um, I was thinking, maybe, if you’d be into it, it’d be really cool if—” Adam’s eyes were already closed before his brain could process the feeling of Clara’s lips on his, her hands tangled in his hair. He hesitantly let his hand find her waist, only pulling her closer the tighter her grip on his hair became.

Adam didn’t realize an entire song could feel like a lifetime until Clara pulled away as the chorus faded into silence. Clara didn’t look at him before turning behind her towards the open window. Streams of light began to paint the walls of the bedroom, the shades of purple and pink sunrise forming outside the window. It framed itself like a photo as it began to fill the room, the record setting itself on repeat at the sign of a show.  As the light hit Adam’s face, he felt his body float away from him as he became overwhelmed with the memento mori.

It took Clara’s soft snores to pull him back down to reality. She was curled up on the pillow, the golden beams making her hair glitter in the light. Adam let out a sigh as he climbed off the bed and pulled on his one-size-too-big hoodie and walked out of the room and into the brisk damn of fall.  

 

dancing king.

When he walked into the room

I had nearly missed him. 

It was the first time I had seen his face,

memorized the special curves

and peculiar valleys,

and realized how pleasant I found them.

The springs of curls had been buzzed away,

leaving a clean cut shadow. 

He was walking a little straighter

or maybe I had imagined it as more than it was

or maybe I hadn’t ever bothered to pay many attention.

 

When he walked onto the dancefloor

his ears were adorned with gold,

the light catching the glimmering metal

whenever he moved. 

His smile was shy and all-knowing as he danced in the center of the circle,

just for a moment becoming the star he desired to be.

Or maybe he didn’t care much for the attention

but for the swaying bodies around him.

Maybe it was in spite of the other boys who stood around like stocks of straw,

paralyzed by the fear of

what?

Being different?

 

When he walked into the line

he stood quietly waiting,

a dazed smile on his face

while I watched around and about him fondly.

Seniori-tea

Fear is defining my life lately.

This isn’t a pleasant conclusion to come to as you can imagine. I’d like to think that I, for the most part, exude a certain amount of confidence. I’d even say, if it isn’t too bold, that I’ve managed to fool most people into thinking that I feel secure with myself. Ha.

I’ve lived under the perpetual belief that everyone secretly hates me for the past ten years of my existence and I’m kind of over it. I think everyone feels that way from time to time; I’d even argue that it’s an essential ingredient to the human condition. But my fear of taking up too much space, being too bold, or too invasive is driving me towards insanity.

It’d be easy to pin this feeling on a small but traumatic lunch room incident when I was in the second grade, but I’m starting to believe it’s far beyond simple rejection. I think I hold a certain shame in my existence—I’m obsessed with this idealized persona of myself and the idea of anyone seeing past that terrifies me to no end. I feel like if I say the wrong thing or let anyone outside my very tight group of friends know any of the things I care about, they’ll come to be disappointed, bored, or worst of all annoyed.

The worst part right now is that this fear has started to bleed into my creative work the more aware I become of how closely attached it is to me and the prying eyes of my peers. In reality my world wouldn’t implode if someone believe that something I wrote sucked. My problem, however, begins to take root in people thinking that because of that, I suck.

I’m in a current dilemma. I could A) drop all of my bullshit and push myself to be more daring once in awhile or B) I could continue to play it safe and save myself from all the inevitable and impending heartbreak. A is our obvious choice.

But it doesn’t change the fact that sometimes, although there are highlights, I do suck. I’m really soft-spoken, so most people can’t hear me in loud group settings. I’m also insanely uncomfortable talking in most groups expect when it’s my closest friends. I’m either overly talkative or uncomfortably quiet when I’m in conversation with others and sometimes I nod and smile when people speak to me instead of bothering to process a word of what’s being said.

I use self deprecating humor because I grew up in a generation whose main source of comedy is formulated as such, even though it’s honestly just sad and uncomfortable to listen to. I’m a Cancer, so of course I’m emotionally unstable. Sometimes I’ll isolate myself away from the people I care about more than the world because I’ll convince myself that they don’t actually like me or want to speak to me, inevitably distancing us further.

I want to talk to literally 10,000 different people and befriend them, but I never do because I convince myself that they either a) are too cool for me or b) want nothing to do with me. Even if I do end up talk to those people, I still manage to convince myself that everything about our friendship is fake.

I also dissociate 50% of the time—partly to ease the pain of being alive and at school but mainly because the stress and sadness of being alive at the moment is too much and if I snap out of it anytime soon I might actually kill myself.

Yet there’s a reason I’m writing this all out on here and not in my journal to look back on in a few months and pity myself over. I’m exposing myself because acceptance is the first step. I’m exposing myself because I need to be held accountable for my self-sabotaging bullshit. I’m exposing my inner workings because deep down, you’re reading my words because something is sticking for you.

We all need to breathe and lower our fists every now and then. I think that most of us never learn to live audaciously until the ripe age of 40, and as much as I’m looking forward to how enlightened I’ll be by that time, I think it’d be ridiculous to wait that long. I deserve to be happy and live my life the way I desire. I deserve to let myself feel proud of the work I’m doing. I deserve to let myself talk to the people I watch from afar when I walk the halls with my headphones in. I deserve to keep singing my lungs out in the car when I pull into the student parking lot, banging my head like a poltergeist is taking over my body. I deserve to live the life I’ve always wanted.

When I think of people who live the closest to fearlessly as any teenager can, I think of my friend Irene. We were talking the other day about people, especially one person in particular that always makes me nervous to talk to. She told me that she never really acknowledged status with others. She just sees a new person to come and understand.

I haven’t been the same since.

To be clear, the girl isn’t superhuman by any means, but if there’s one gift she has that I can only hope to get a fraction of, it is her ability to connect. That’s what I want to work on. I want to connect this year before I have to cut ties with my home. I want to connect with myself, connect with people, and connect with the world. Only then will I ever be able to get where I want to go. Only then can I live a little bit more freely.

Right now I’m going to be kinder to myself. I hope you can come to do the same.

 

the way home.

We were squished together like sardines

in a dark blue hallway,

the linoleum lights giving a warm and tired glow

on our sweaty and tired faces.

Tiny feet beat down on the ground

causing the ringing of drums to spiral

down that black blue hallway.

Then there was me—

tall and wearing too many layers for fall,

straight hair pulled too tightly back in a ponytail,

my tiny fist clinging to my shiny black box of plastic

with the only numbers inside being my mother’s and the house.

 

When the bell rang, the children sprang free

from the confines of the brick school house,

grubby hands pushing and shoving,

tiny feet drumming on pavement

until they hit the grass and took off

running across the hills toward wired fencing.

We all sang when we crossed the wired fence,

our feet slowing to a walk

until our hands found our silver door knobs

and we were finally home.