20 something.

i remember being a kid & looking at those attractive, well dressed, 20 somethings sitting in the libraries. they were smiling, reading their books, doing their homework, & drinking their coffees. & i always thought to myself, "they look so happy, yeah, they must be really happy."
i envied them.
but here i am. i am a 20 something, barely, but still a 20 something. & i may spend days sitting in the libraries, i read my books, i do my homework, i drink my beverages, and sometimes i smile. i forget to sleep and i reckon that's part of being a 20 something. i am currently sitting in my apartment, on my couch, listening to cheap trick & the carpenters & wearing a snap back.
i'm a 20 something.
i remember being a kid & looking at those 20 somethings. wondering what it would be like to be a 20 something. well. here i am, a 20 something. i ask myself sometimes if i'm okay with where i am at the age of 20 something.
& you know, i think i am.
i'm a 20 something. & i'm okay with it.

p.s. tay blogged. check it out right here.

seams and patches.

            Our world consists of heartbreak. Everyday a tragedy happens, a dream is shattered, an idea blown out, and a love extinguished.  Life is a quilt and each stitch is made up of both happy and sad, of love and fear. Each trial, each mountain we climb is another patch. During the process of it all, while the quilt is still in pieces, it is hard to see the finished product, it is difficult to see how beautiful our quilt will be and how all the time and effort will pay off. But as we continue on and it comes together, hour-by-hour, it works out. And soon all the hours melt together and the days have passed and you’re done. You’re done and in your hands you hold your very own work of art, something you created. Every time you look at, every time you run your fingers across the seams and patches you remember the happy moments and the sorrowful ones and you smile, because though it was difficult, it is still beautiful.

In the scriptures it says” “And it came to pass . . .” not, “And it came to stay.”

things i would tell my seventeen year old self.

When I was seventeen I had the whole world ahead of me. I had hopes and dreams and the prospects of becoming something new. I had the idea that everything out in the great wide world was meant for me. When I was seventeen there were choices to be made but I was confident I would pick correctly.

I look back to when I was seventeen and I wonder what I would tell myself at that age.

I would tell her to calm down and think twice before making hasty decisions. To love hard and hold all the hands she thinks about holding. To never stop dreaming. I would tell her not to build a wall, to barricade from hurt. I would tip her in on the boys to kiss and the boys not to waste her time on. I would admonish her on the good movies to see. I would tell her that trying things just to say you did so isn’t worth it. I would teach her how to hide in her mind and never emerge until she felt it was the right thing to do. I would demand she hold her tongue whether she liked it or not.

I would brush her hair behind her ear and tell her that first kisses only come once in a lifetime and to take advantage and write down her experience word for word, action for action, feeling for feeling.

I would hug my seventeen-year-old self and say: ‘Self, honey, life is tough right now. I hate to tell you this, but it is only going to get harder.  But you’ve got a lot more in you than you think and you’ll make it, you’ll surprise yourself. I promise”

If I ever met my seventeen year old self I would teach her to love everyone and never judge. If I ever met my seventeen-year-old self I would tell her to be cheerful. I would tell her to believe and that all wounds heal with time.

jane eyre is my hero. i'm serious.

I Am No Bird.

            The soft red glow flashed 12:00. “Did the power go out?” I thought. I didn’t remember ever falling asleep. I felt my forehead: a cold, damp sweat.  I wiped it away with the back of my hand. I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. My hand moved faster than my brain, the glass fell to the carpet “Oh hell.” I said to the darkness. My legs slid slowly from beneath the covers and met the puddle that had begun to form. The now empty glass glittered in the moonlight, mocking me.

            Anger rose to my throat and in an act of impulse I threw the glass against the wall. It shattered on impact. Here I was, sometime after midnight, my knees now damp. A mess of shattered glass spread across the room. I was exhausted. My only thoughts were sleep.

             Sleep and pain.

            Heartache.

             I closed my eyes and rested my head against the pale yellow wall and let the tears fall. Each tear came faster than the one before. I was overwhelmed with life, with growing up, with love, and the pain of it all.

            I was tired of feeling tired.

            Broken images of the last few weeks crossed my mind; each a negative thought. My life didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.  Hugging my knees to my chest I collapsed into the fetal position and asked myself how I’d let it come this far.

My job was a mess; I was overworking and taking blame. My heart ached with the pangs of puppy love; and my thoughts, my biggest attacker, had left me bruised and broken.

            And I took it.

            I took it. That’s what astonished me most, I bent over and took it.

            I was miserable.

            I cried. I cried and cried.

            “What the hell am I doing?” I asked myself when the crying turned to a sob.  How pathetic a scene I was painting; huddled against the wall, tears and snot mixing together and falling to the collar of my oversized t shirt.

            Pathetic. I was pathetic.

            It took everything I had to stand up. I ran my fingers through my hair and brought it to a ponytail.  I opened the worn copy of Jane Eyre and felt the comfort and familiarity of its words before reading them. My fingers searched the dog-eared pages until they found the quote underlined time and time again; the page almost worn through. 

            I read Jane’s words.  Jane Eyre, so independent, so free, so sure of herself. Jane Eyre who had witnessed the darker hour and gained from it. I read her words and the sobbing ceased. There were only leftover tears now. Jane’s words, her thoughts, and her character; although fiction chased away the darkness; her words reached out of her story and ended my darkness. Jane’s words gave me hope

            “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”