The Dark

...since I didn't post for a long while, this is a long post.

She rubs her eyes and looks at the walls again. At the moment, they’re looking a sickly, fluorescent sort of color—more lemon yellow than soft green—that makes the pit of her stomach feel even emptier. But it’s not just her stomach. As the hours slip by—midnight, one, two, three, four, five in the morning—she, in her entirety, becomes emptier and emptier, like her mind’s being removed, carved out, gutted out of her body. Turning back to the computer, she tries to conjure up emotion, ideas, thoughts. Something? 

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Unread

My blog posts come in floods and droughts. Sometimes I'll write three huge posts a day, then I'll go a week without thinking of anything to say. Today, I have a lot to say. I guess writing in general has been on my mind.

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Procrastination. And some thoughts.

This is just going to be a blogpost full of random thoughts while I put off college apps.

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oops, I like social experimentation?

sorry, my mistake, let me correct myself: I LOVE SOCIAL EXPERIMENTATION.
Is the way i just said it looking a bit obnoxious? good. But really I don't think I've said anything particularly wrong.

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Saying Nothing

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A Scarlet Letter?!?!? No.......i tricked you.

Just a random letter to myself in the ridiculous hours of the morning.

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colorless junk

November 27, 2010 12:16AM

Right now, I’ve been looking at the empty personal message box open on my messenger application. It kind of makes me sit and wonder. Especially since my mind is just looking to be distracted right now.

How do I feel?

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uhm. what? double rainbows? not really.

I'm currently supposed to be working on college apps. But I never seem to be able to think of anything relevant unless it's due in 5 minutes.

....and it's not due in 5 minutes. So.

I haven't written anything for a while. I just feel like I don't really have anything to say. Actually, I do have things to say. I'm just being super lazy. It's hibernation season. All this winter and snow makes me feel extra slow.

But after listening to the same song on repeat 42 (43 now...) times, I've decided I really should write something. Even if it's not for college apps. So I'm just going to write a random story, regardless of how terribly it turns out. It's half stream of consciousness, since I'm just going to write it as random ideas pop into my head. Okay?

Even if you're not okay with it, too bad. I really need to get writing. And I feel sort of snobby right now. Sorry.

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rust, anyone?

Rust makes me think of being disappointed. It's like a shiny nail that's turned all brown and is falling apart gradually (chemistry students, unite!). It's like you expect a beautiful carmine sort of flower, and once it blooms you find out it's been half chewed by aphids and whatnot and is in the process of decaying. It's like picking out an awesome apple at QFC (people don't seem to pick apples off of trees nowadays...) and turning it over to see an ugly, ugly bruise. Rust is upsetting.

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AHA! ~Just a Cool, Stone Blue.

So! I've reached some decisions regarding how I'm going to tackle my brain-drought.

I've been looking around on the internet and getting some ideas...
This whole time, I've been avoiding writing any stories for quite a while, in order to "save" any ideas that occur to me by chance so I could use it for my short story later, and I don't think it's getting me anywhere.

Therefore, I'm going to do exactly the opposite and try to write as many stories as possible :)
Also, I like how some blogs are themed, so I think I'm going to focus each of my stories on a color, or at least associate my story in some way with a color, since there's an infinite number of colors, and I think colors say a lot. And i guess my stories will just be like 300-500 words or something....

This new way of thinking seems to be working. I thought of it last night, and this morning I got my first story idea in a long time (although it was sorta random) by the time I was brushing my teeth! so basically as soon as I woke up :)

So here is my first practice story? And hopefully by the time my short story is actually

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GUYS. We're ALL Prism flavored!

I was surfing the interwebs when all of a sudden I saw an ad. For 5 gum.

Prism flavored.....an electric watermelon.

I'm still feeling sorta blah creativity-wise, but i've just been getting over it by doing chem homework, and seeing this ad just made me feel a lot better.

But really. Who thought of that name? What do prisms have to do, in any way, with watermelons? or electric ones, for that matter? How do people make those associations?

It kind of makes me think of those ridiculous internet/magazine quizzes. like, Which celebrity are you? What is yo' animal? Who is yo' Twilight love match? (wow, ew).

...If you're mostly A's, you're THIS. If you're mostly B's, you're THAT. If you're mostly C's, you're NEITHER, and consequently very-very, very very very very VERY unacceptably lame. You should change yourself so you're either mostly A's or mostly B's, got it?

But it's not just those quizzes. People in general, I think, have the tendency to try and label themselves under certain categories. It's supposed to refrect yo' chaaaaractaaar and sho' yu de weeeei. Even at camps, I've heard random questions like, If you were a FRUIT (just imagine you were!) what FRUIT would you be?....or maybe you are actually a VE-GE-TA-BLE?!?!? If your name was a CITY, what CITY would you want? Rrrrrromantic, like Paris? Byoootiful, like Bellevue? Sketchy, like Las Vegas (i see what you did there, buddy)?

It's not exactly a bad thing to want to put a label on things, I guess. But I also think it obscures things. It makes people focus on a single aspect of something, rather than looking at the whole. If we looked at things holistically, there'd be no way for us to label ourselves like that. There would be no words. But, I think, there would be stories.

From what I've read of the workshop stories, so many of the characters are so filled out, so real, so 3D. And it's not from direct description. It's from their experiences that I witness in the stories written about them, and sooner or later, while I'm reading the story, I feel like I'm almost reading a huge character sketch every time, because I get to know the character so well! But if you asked me to describe the character, I wouldn't be able to find the right words at all. The feelings that the stories evoke......they're somethin' else. No words to describe the thoughts and sympathy they grow, Prism flavored or not.

My friend Jesus.

So...just now, as my mom walked by, I took out my planner and it opened up to a page with two random Buddhas and a Jesus drawn on it. Needless to say, my mom was quite surprised and slightly (very very very very) offended. Luckily, my experience as an Asian child helped me to save myself by letting her know instantly that I certainly didn't put them there.

Anyways, that close-call reminded me of something. My mother's reaction, I must admit, was similar to how I first freaked out when my friend drew Jesus on my planner during school earlier today. This sort of thing goes to show that the freak-out-factor is genetic. I think it's weird how whenever I go to Church (sorry if some people don't like religion-y things), I get told that God should be like my best friend, my dad, my teacher, ....everything. Even though I'm sure that is a very encompassing and good idea, to be honest I can't quite imagine myself saying, "'Sup God," or "Oh hey there, it's the Holy Spirit," or "Holaaaaaaaa.....Jesus." I feel like to revere something, I somehow need to get sort of distant to it: Jesus is amazing y'all, but DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH A HAIR OF HIS HOLY HEAD. IT'S NOT ALLOWED.

I remember this one time I came back from Church when I was about seven, and I was kinda excited 'cuz that was the first time I heard God was supposed to....be my best friend?
So I remember sort of staying up that night at until 12 and just sitting in the dark (this is way back in the old days when 12 was LATE for me)....trying to talk to God. Up till that point, when I prayed, I'd just recited standard stuff. It was the same everyday. So this whole conversational thing was new, and weird. And after struggling for about half an hour, I decided I was being ridiculous and went to sleep.

So what is it that makes people avoid stuff like that? Why is it bad to "talk to God," or Jesus, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever floats your boat, for that matter? For me, I feel like there's a taboo. I'm supposed to be super well-behaved talking to someone like, God, have my best attitude, and my brightest smile, and he's supposed to know that everythings going wonderfully. The world is great.

But then, that doesn't quite fit either, does it? It feels so unnatural, so dishonest. Which it is, I guess. So I kinda just felt like writing a thing about Jesus, in a less....not in a less reverent way, but in a less awkward way. In a more honest, blunt way. I'm not quite sure if it's still what I'm looking for, but hopefully, I've gotten somewhere since my seven-year-old problems.

I know a guy named Jesus. He's an old friend. I've known him just about since I was born. He's super smart and he tells good stories, while being the perfect listener. He gets what you're talking about instantly, and he doesn't judge you. So basically, he's an overall awesome and nice guy. But there's a problem. It's not his problem. It's my problem.

He listens even when he knows I'm lying. I know I shouldn't take advantage of that. But thinking about people like Jesus makes me feel like crap. If I were honest I'd probably complain all the time, or freak about something completely irrelevant and unimportant, or talk about a bunch of ordinary, bland topics that he hears about just about a million times a day.

And another thing. I haven't seen him in a long time. Talking to him was awkward, so I guess I quit being his friend over a period of several years. I used to go over every week, I swear, but I'm a busy kid. One week I was busy being sick after staying up three nights in a row, and the next week my mom was sick, and then my dog was sick, I had a birthday party to go to, I had a huge project, I procrastinated on homework, I felt tired, I didn't really know anyone at his house anymore, I couldn't wake up early enough, I forgot about it.

I'm a heathen, I know.....So do you think he'll still be friends with me?

I hope so.
He's a smart guy who can understand. I want his good stories to make me smart, too. And the way he listens makes me wish I talked using a little less words, with a little more honesty.

Simply sincere

I've been thinking about writing in general recently, especially since the beginning of the short story workshops has been freaking me out. I have absolutely NOOOOO idea what I'm going to write about, how I'm going to go about writing it, and when I'm going to start writing it. I'm just at a stasis right now. I can't think of anything to write about when I sit myself down in front of the computer and try to write. I can't just sit in front of a screen and come up with ideas. I just get random thoughts throughout the day, and I try to tuck them in a little pocket in my mind for use later, or I repeat it to myself over and over in my head until I can find paper and a pencil to write with. Usually, I forget what it was that I was so enthusiastic about getting down, and then I have to wait until the next time an idea decides to pop into my mind.

This all led me to think that writing really should be a sincere, natural sort of thing. It can't be forced, there's no formula involved in making a good piece of writing. I always feel like when I write I need to have something meaningful in the words I use, or the subjects I talk about, and then I get super self-conscious and fail miserably. But I had a conversation with one of my friends today, and as I read her messages in the chat box it really hit me what a sincere voice she has. I enjoy talking to her because the way she expresses herself is so candid, honest, and open. It invites conversation and reminds me of weird things--like fresh apples waiting to be eaten, or a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. She says things that wait to be discussed, thought about, and enjoyed.

Things can be enjoyed even if they're conversational. They're just nice in their simplicity. A complex topic can be presented in a simple voice, and everything becomes all the more striking, more forward, more memorable. I want to write like that eventually. Hopefully, with time I'll become completely comfortable about writing in my voice, with no bells and whistles attached.

Sorry.

Just a random thing I felt like writing....I've been really preoccupied by the concept of growing up lately....It seems like the more I think about it, the faster time goes. So I try not to think about it, but that's like trying not to think about something when someone commands you not to. It just doesn't work.

Sorry. She was sorry. Sorry that when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone older than she expected. In her mind's eye, she saw her five-year-old self, puzzled and hurt by the neglect she was showing to the setting world of her childhood.

But it was inevitable. The days--they just slipped, she couldn't help it, they just got away from her, leaked out of her tightly cupped hands. She wanted to find the source, use one hand to stopper time, wherever it began, and use her other hand to reach out to the girl of her past, the girl being left behind, the girl being locked away--alone in a world of magic, vibrant colors, and childish secrets meant to be whispered into attentive ears, not brokenly mumbled into empty air. But she was too far gone, the time was too late.

There once was a time she was sure who she was, when some magic, and dreams, and her faith was enough. There once was a day she hoped she'd become a hero like in the cartoons she'd so devotedly watched, when she thought she'd rise up and unfold her wings. But she grew and changed, the world changed, time was moving, moving along, pushing and nudging her towards new dreams, more realistic and cold hopes, more logical and precise wishes. It nudged so far into cold and rationality that that the dreams, hopes, and wishes soon became "goals"--stony pellets and shells that encased her soft, glittering, childish heart. Goals closed her eyes with exhaustion when years ago she'd spent her nights intently staring at the ceiling sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars from Toys-R-Us. Back then, the ceiling had been the whole galaxy and beyond.

Sorry. She was so sorry. Sorry to her reflection, sorry for hating that awkward girl in the mirror. Sorry to the past, sorry for locking it away. And sorry to herself, because she was stuck, in between. Between the child who had to be forgotten in order to survive the new obstacles time brought, and the adult she feared becoming--the adult who embodied dullness, faithlessness, and utter cynicism.

You don't know me.

Something just occurred to me, and I wanted to get it down.

Do most people feel as if their parents know them? While I've been doing college application essays, and other people have been doing the same, I feel like that issue has been coming up a lot....

At first, I wrote an essay that I thought would turn out well...I sat down and said, I"M WRITING MY COLLEGE ESSAY....STARTING NOW. My mom read it and hated it. She was like, it doesn't sound like you.

I must admit, I ended up agreeing with her, but at first I got super pissed about it and it ended up being a two-week long argument. She said my essay was too negative, dark, and unappealing. I responded by saying, "Well clearly you don't know me then. But I know myself, and I know I'm in this essay, and if you don't like me this way, that's too bad." But she won the argument, and I edited the essay over, and over, and over again to make it "positive" until I realized I'd edited myself out completely, and I was trying to write in the voice of a stranger. The idea I'd had, the idea I'd been enthusiastic about for months, the idea I'd anticipated writing eagerly, became ugly, and later I couldn't stand it.

So I scrapped it, eventually. And I was super upset, so I was writing about how I was upset about that....and then that became my new college essay.....@_@ super circular and ironic. And after that, I wrote two more essays, and as of yet the three essays all feel like me, I think. I hope.

My mom likes these better. But still, there are times when she points at a line and says, THIS ISN"T YOU, and I say HOW WOULD YOU KNOW. This whole back and forth process has been stressing me out. It made me wonder if I was abnormal or unreasonable, if I was the only one having these huge arguments.

But then I heard a lot of people talking about the same things, and it made me think that the college essay really is a sort of pressure cooker. People get pushed by everyone else on all sides--do this, do that, take that out, I don't like this, you should be that. So it's critical to truthful, good writing to be honest to yourself. Follow intuition. If it feels wrong for you, it's because it is wrong for you. It doesn't matter if you don't know exactly, explicitly, precisely who you are. Somehow, if there's something that clicks, even if you don't know what, you should follow through with it. An essay about yourself should be something that you can smile about, not something that you hate. It should be something easy to write, not something that you worry about or something that makes you feel insecure.

People don't, people can't, know all about you. People can't know all about me. The writer needs to take control, because they're the only ones who can easily, naturally, beautifully lay themselves out on the paper.

Video Games...in My Sleep? AHJDSJLASASJDKL

I don't really like blogging about how life's been going and all that crap, I feel like blogs should be more for like...thoughts? or particular topics that's the central focus of the whollllllle blog, but what do I know? Also, i'm a hypocrite. And if you tell me you're not, you're a hypocrite too....(ummm that sounds circular...but I hope that made sense).

Anyways, I realized how sadly college has already been eating my life from a dream I had last night!

Warning: I have weird dreams.

I've been really interested in the concept of lucid dreaming lately. This link basically lays out the gist of what lucid dreaming is, and how people practice it! I really want to be able to dream lucidly....it kinda makes me feel like...I'd be playing a video game, except I'd be IN THE VIDEOGAME.....IN MY SLEEP. People can do whatever they imagine in lucid dreams, the sky's the limit!...literally. If you want to fly, you can fly, instantly. Because you're aware that you're dreaming, and you can control everything you want, however much you want.

...Maybe it's unrealistic that I'm hoping to use lucid dreaming to do the impossible.

Too bad.

So...I've been practicing strategies to lucid dream. Basically, this consists of me spending random moments of the day feeling stupid while I look at a wall and try to change it's color with the force of my mind. It's like using a totem in Inception, just less cool. If the wall changes color, OMG YOU'RE ACTUALLY DREAMING AND NOW YOU KNOW. If the wall doesn't change color, you should stop. You're awake, and looking at the wall with so much focus makes you look like a dork.

~So if this becomes a habit, it increases the chance that you'll look at a wall while you're asleep/dreaming and that you'll try to change it's color while you're asleep. Which is what I did last night!!! and the wall REALLY changed color from yellow to green and purple and I freaked out in my sleep, because I realized I was dreaminggggg.

Apparently people unpracticed in lucid dreaming are super stupid when they're dreaming. In my dream, my mom, who has been yelling at me about college apps for what feels like forever (why so azn, mom?), was STILL YELLING at me about them. SO then, my brilliant dream-self reasoned that since my mom was still freaking about college apps, and not being nice or letting me do whatever (aka play video games, watch TV, fly, walk on the walls, etc), I was actually AWAKE. Yes, I convinced myself that somehow, even though the wall just changed color, my mother's anger proved that I'd been imagining the color change, and that I was actually awake. So I literally forgot that I was dreaming. T_T

My dreams SUCK.

They're either completely lame and boring, or I'm always being chased by zombies and trying to kill them with a black baseball bat I got in second grade that I keep in my closet. And then the zombies come attack me and overwhelm me, and I die, because my mom's too busy cooking the rice or calculating taxes or rearranging the furniture to help me.

...why does this happen?!?! I must say I really, really hope dreams are NOT a reflection of a person's life at all....

I wish I played videogames.....

....Just saying.

I REALLY WANT TO PLAY TWILIGHT PRINCESS WTF

I noticed over the last few days I'm an incredible dork. I was listening....to the sound track of Twilight Princess because I want that to be the first video game I play!!! And I liked the music a lot.....I think it's because it just gets me in a positive mood, and makes me feel like I'm in the video game, almost.....dorky, I know. But a lot of the time, I love video games, or cartoons, or books, and stories because it gets me out of my life and into a whole new world. Because that's the point of a lot of fantasy, right? It's a good reliever of stress, and gives people a time to just imagine, and be in an ideal world, where they can have ridiculous powers, or be able to believe in magic, or do things they wouldn't be able to achieve in real life...and when I draw, or write random things, it's kind of the same thing...because I make up a whole 'nother place in my head, right?

So I think videogame graphics, or cartoons, etc can be really counted as a true form of art.... For a long time, I kind of looked down on art as an idea. It didn't really compare, I thought, with being something like a doctor. While doctors saved people's lives, artists just made pretty pictures. But that's so incorrect...art is what happens when people express their thoughts, and good artists can bring people into their own worlds, and make people believe in what they believe in, love what they love, and see things how they see things. Doctors save lives in the physical sense, but art saves lives in the mental sense, I think.

But there are times when playing games, or watching a cartoon, or looking at fantastical landscapes and whatnot kind of make me sad. It makes me slightly crestfallen when I look at those sorts of things, and then realize that while in the imaginary world people are off taming dragons, and fighting monsters, or whatever, I need to turn back to my desk and finish my AP Stats, Quiz 5.1.

Oh homework. You thrill me -.-

Or I listen to....like, the Sailor Moon theme song, and I get a flood of memories of wanting to be Sailor Moon when I was little. And then I check the time, and it's 3 in the morning. It makes me wonder if people have the time in their lives to live in two separate ways, two separate places--one life in the mind, far, far away, another life right where gravity holds them down, right side up, stuck to solid ground that seems to get...too real sometimes.

And being a child is so much more awesome, when it comes to these things. Children have the wonderful ability, I think, to completely immerse themselves in different worlds. It's so easy to believe things :3. But maybe length of childhood, or the ability for one to control one's childhood doesn't have to be the same for everyone. With practice, consideration, deliberation, and care, it's a skill that can be cultivated over time. Growing up doesn't mean you need to forget how to believe in ridiculous things, even if it's just for a little while.

Where are the heroes?

I just felt like writing today....I was supposed to be doing that flashback assignment, but I always have problems answering the prompt -.-
I guess I have trouble focusing stuff to a predetermined purpose. Some writing just happens instinctively, without direction.
Not sure if I liked how it ended up, but I stuck with it....and now I can't believe I'm posting this.
Ugh.

"In the name of love and justice, we shall punish you!"

Slam. Bam. Alakazam.

With a flood of colors, the magical girl-wonder waved her unicorn scepter and turned the ugly, disproportionate monster to shadow-dust. The screen blacked out quickly, and small white credits began inching up, up, up, in time with the soft music.

She kept watching, eyes staring emptily at the white parade, ear buds gently buzzing against the walls of her ears. She always watched until the credits were done. Even though girl-wonder was no longer in action, beating up the bad guys, and zapping them to another dimension, she still liked the final image that played throughout the closing song, the image of the heroine standing still (for once), peacefully alone on a hill and looking up at a sparkling sky with a bright, fuzzy full moon.

As the music faded out and the screen darkened, she let out a small, singular "Hah!" and popped out the ear buds. Once again, the show had proven to be ridiculous, childish and cheesy, and yet she couldn't stop herself from watching another episode--or another whole season of it, for that matter. She couldn't wean herself off her addiction.

With her ear buds removed, she was once again out, out in reality. She could hear the muffled sounds of her mother, yelling at her dad over the phone, through the walls of her room. Arguing, again. Maybe she needed to watch the next episode while things cooled down. Too late. She'd shut down the computer.

What made her watch these things? These juvenile, unsophisticated, melodramatic TV shows? While others watched TV dramas, or reality TV, what was it that made her turn back to her favorite TV program from when she was five? Had she really not grown during the decade since then? It was getting difficult to watch--the ridiculous plot was painful to listen to, and she kept it an embarrassing secret.

She rubbed her eyes. Perhaps it was the memories. She remembered, years back, sitting in the living room, eyes glued to the TV screen in utter absorption, cheering on girl-wonder through a mouthful of potato chips and sweet Capri Sun. Well then. She had grown up, because watching it now wasn't the same. Now, she watched the exaggerated scenes and listened to unrealistic voice-overs not because she really believed, but because it helped her remember. There was a drawing, entrapping sense of nostalgia. By letting herself be temporarily convinced by the impossibilities, even if just for a second, she became a child again.

But then....it was never complete. She really, truly wasn't five anymore, in any sense. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it was clear that her life would never be as magical or adventurous as what she saw. The Real World ran on a ticking, ticking clock, and dreamers weren't welcome. With her nostalgia came an addictive jealousy. She wished she lived in a world where heroes and villains existed, where it was easy to tell good apart from evil, where goodness always won. She, too, wanted to have magic, and wanted to be surrounded by people with "good dreams,"--by people who had stars implanted in their hearts. She wanted there to be a sovereign force, complete trust in everyone, a pegasus, and a ridiculously perfect moon kingdom ruled by love and justice!

So amateur. So unrealistic. Once the show was over, and the credits rolled, and the music faded out, she was left with just a computer screen, knowing that her heroes only existed in her head, and that really, she had trouble trusting even the people closest to her.

When she was five, she had thought adults were stupid. They were narrow-minded because they lacked faith in magic while somehow, she was sure, magic existed, even if they couldn't see it. She felt it made her open-minded to keep believing, to keep looking. She searched for the secret magic, the hiding mythical creatures, and the dream-life for years. But slowly, the hopes dried up as she grew, as she came closer to being an "adult." Adult. What an ugly, faithless, skeptic word. Being a child, with endless, unstoppable faith and imagination was so much more wonderful and beautiful. As a child, she didn't need to wonder, "Where are the heroes? Where have they gone?" Instead, at five-years-old, she'd known, she'd just known, that the heroes were hiding from forbidden, human eyes, maybe concealed just around the corner, or standing behind her, out of sight. Or, she had thought, perhaps there was a hero inside her, too, waiting to come out once it was time for her to save the world and the galaxy beyond.

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes in an uncomfortable attempt to fall asleep. The heroes and villains of her five-year-old reality had packed their bags and left long ago. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere they still fought, lived, and hid...somewhere, deep in her dreams.

Nostalgia

I don't consider myself a writer. On a normal basis, the idea of writing kinda makes me cringe. I journal because I want to keep memories, not necessarily because I feel like writing. Which is why I always push back, back journal entries, saying, I'll do it tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, until I realize I've forgotten what I was first going to write about, or I turn to my last journal entry and freak about the fact that it's from a month ago. Or when we get an essay from school, I just get a sinking feeling, thinking about how I'm going to spend the next several days sitting in front of my computer and getting my skin bleached by the light coming off the screen.

Other times, like the flash backs we discussed in class (but not really), something happens, and I have to write. I'm afraid of forgetting stuff, losing ideas, or not recording something important for future reference, and if I'm unfortunate enough, I'll have to get up in the middle of the night to scribble something on a random scrap sheet or an index card before I forget it...although I probably won't be able to read it the next morning. And when I actually get myself to journal or write letters, I can't seem to stop. I might as well finish and get out a lot of thoughts once I start, right?

So those are the times when I feel compelled to write--kind of forced by my conscience. And my other reason is tied to fear of forgetfulness I guess, but it's a different way of looking at it...I like looking back at old journal entries. They're like a call from the past, and then there's a wave of nostalgia, kin of (I sound like I'm 100 years old....). A lot of the time that makes me upset, but I feel like nostalgia's also important and necessary, despite people always saying, "Move FORWARD!!!!!! INTO THE FUTURE!!!! LIVE IN THE NOW AND SEIZE THE DAY!!!" Once I'm through with the upset part of nostalgia, I'm actually a bit more cheerful and a dab more secure than I started off. Nostalgia's like a check against the future. It's exactly as it sounds--sad, but soft and round, comforting and warm. When I move too far forward, all at once, that I get lost, I look back and see how I got where I am. I retrace my steps--laugh at mistakes, cry at losses, listen to old music, draw with crayons, look at pictures, and youtube a TV show I used to love--all to run into Nostalgia's arms. i rest a little in the past, because it's easier to relive things than to forge ahead, always pushing the boundaries of time. I think that it's important, especially now that I'm applying to college, that I keep the sense of Nostalgia alive, because it's so easy to try and put up a pretense, a perfect-student-image that's set and cropped to match what we think colleges want. And there's all that rush--people get ready for the next stage in their lives, and it kinda makes them forget what they're also in the process of leaving behind.

No-Name.

This next post is what I wrote for the character-yearning assignment. To be honest, I didn't really want to post this. Something about it isn't right...but I can't figure out which part to fix. I've been tinkering here and there, and the wrong-ness just gets worse and worse.

So why did I post it?

I think I feel a certain responsibility to post everything I write for this course onto my writing blog.....Cause not everyone's checking this blog right?!? 0.0....anyways, it's like, I owe it to the blog to not let the flow of posts stutter and stop...so here it is.

No-Name

Janie’s mother wants her to scrap her college essay. She says it’s too dark, uncreative, and untruthful. It is not the Janie she knows, she is sure.

But who is Janie? She is certainly not the same person as Jane Doe, who goes to school and has friends (she hopes), and laughs, and jokes, and fools around. Jane Doe lives outside and doesn’t know how to frown. She has the depth of a paper plate and the contentedness of an ignorant child.

Janie spends her time at home. Sometimes she is laughing with her mother and smiling with a wordless happiness, other times not. Other times she is fighting and saying cruel things. But Janie’s mother sees no reason for Janie to be truly unhappy. She has had unbelievable luck in life. This consists of plenty to eat, a warm home, and a robust moral education. And Jane Doe, of whom Janie’s mother is also aware, has also had unbelievable luck, this time consisting of a busy social life, abundant resources, and robust academics. Between Janie and Jane Doe, Janie’s mother asserts, nothing is amiss.

But there is also She. Janie’s mother doesn’t know who this is.

She. As in, “She who knows not what her name is,” or “She who answers to Janie and Jane Doe, but feels strange in both names, when She takes the time to think about it.” So let us refer to She as No-Name, for the time being.

No-Name is always confused and never knows what to do. She has much too many dreams, and each dream is a much-too-big dream. No-Name sits up late at night, criss-cross-apple-sauced and straight-backed in her bed, thinking. Listening, to the ticking of her clock and her own breathing. She listens steadily as Time circles her, very close, but never near enough for her to catch in her clumsy hands, so the hours always slip-slide-slip and tick-tock-tick away. No-Name dreams even when she’s awake, and she can be ridiculously foolish. She cries and laughs at the same time. She is all feeling and intuition, so there are no order to her thoughts, yet she continues to think and think, until she slips into a deep, dreamless sleep—which annoys her because she likes dreaming, regardless of whether it’s nightmare or fairytale. Perhaps No-Name doesn’t dream in her sleep because she dreams too much when she’s awake. Because she is already a shadow, insubstantial and invisible, when she is awake.

So when No-Name is asleep, she is gone. Non-existent. She returns in the morning when her body wakes up. But she doesn’t stay for long. If people saw No-Name, they would laugh, which is why she never leaves her room. Her captivity is an inevitable phenomenon, she thinks. She is a blundering, illogical, emotional mess. While her mind is quick, her heart lacks defenses. Her heart is an egg with no shell. There’s just that thin, clear membrane surrounding the core—the yolk—and when you poke it, if you dare poke it, it will surely pop, and the yellow will flood out, into the whites, utterly vulnerable and lost.

When No-Name finds herself looking at the Name blanks on her assignments and school forms, she doesn’t know how to sign them. She doesn’t know how to sign the cards and letters that she writes. Janie? Jane Doe? She feels like not signing, or signing as someone else, though she doesn’t yet know who that “someone else” is.

No-Name is rewriting her college essay. She goes through the trouble of scrapping the first because Janie’s mother is right. Her essay is too dark, uncreative, untruthful. But No-Name does not want to write as the Janie her mother knows. She wants to write an essay about herself, truly. An essay that will place her securely on the paper. But how does one truthfully write about oneself? How can one form words when one is a chaotic splatter of ink on a Rorschach test? How does one grab one’s dreams and lay them bare on so fragile a medium?—A medium that can be water-logged, ripped, shredded, burned.

In the end, the name at the top of the paper will be Jane Doe, and the person written into the essay will be Janie. As she writes, No-Name suspects she will fail to leave the confines of her room yet again. Yet again, she sits safe and unhappy in the quiet.