burnt muffins

Set the fire alarm off and burnt the muffins. They came from a box; I added three ingredients and poured the goopy batter into muffin molds. The timer beeped at fifteen; below the minimum requirement. They’re sitting on my stove, black as the night sky. Yeah, I burnt muffins out of a box. It’s been one of those days.

I need to write as much as ever tonight. This here, a moment where I question just how honest I’m willing to be, I’m reminded of a little promise made to my inner self about honesty. Honesty means vulnerability and vulnerability is not exactly my favorite concept—unfortunately, the intelligent side of my subconscious is firm on improvement. Vulnerability means improvement; vulnerability is necessary. This post will be different. Thoughts are spinning and whirling a jumbled mess inside my head. My subconscious is rolling her eyes mumbling "drama queen" while my inner self is screaming a girly scream and holding on for dear life. This is all I've got.

o   "We left their mark on California." It’s a labor of love; raw passion to the bone. He’s embarking on the same adventure I set out on at nineteen-years-old. There are only two reasons young adults are drawn to this lifestyle like a moth to a flame: 1, internal obligation for first or 2, absolute loathe of second. I beam with pride when I talk about him; he is living out his dream, passion paving the road but inside, it tears me apart. Parental instincts boil in my blood; I've never experienced the stir of untainted joy towards someone else’s happiness and accomplishments. With this come unsolicited, soaked tears. Convinced most people live entire lives without experiencing the need for something which evokes passion. Intense crave running below skins surface; barely touching heaven—it’s about coming alive. Oh, am I thankful for it all. Aches and pains and pops of my knees are all reminders of what once was. Absence of desire never gets easier. This here and now, this is my life. Attempting to help my ‘baby’ brother grasp just how special this feeling is. To treasure playing music in the clouds, on cloud nine, encouraging him to take big bites of out heaven. Let the feeling of coming alive burn into his soul and mind and heart and every part of him. Suck it up; let it cut deep and scab and eventually, scar. Leaving fragments and memories to guzzle later in life. To never forget what coming alive feels like.

o   Unpredictability has recently pitched a tent in my life and I have a suspicious feeling that it may be consulting a local Realtor. There should really be permit requirement for purchases of that nature. I've watched seventeen episodes of Pretty Little Liars, since Thursday, in a desperate attempt to create consistency and predictability. I have no appetite what-so-ever; not even for Wynn’s chunky chicken salad and ‘everything’ pretzel chips. My bedroom floor is scattered with piles of clean clothes, dirty clothes, bottles of nail polish and purses and shoes; it's all piling up. Constant eye rolls as I continuously step trip over the growing piles. Haven't thought twice about actually tidying up. Feeling as though I’m being left behind; an old soul who occasionally fails to remember my age.  Drowning in the brilliance of others is where I've been finding comfort in the chaos. Constantly overcompensating a forward motion, suffering a debilitating fear of regression. Rubbing my eyes, anxious for resolution, for peace, for a sound mind and improvement. With time, it will happen. With time.

This is all I've got. For now.