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.
