i have a paranoid obsession of thinking someone is either mad at me or suddenly doesnt like me anymore.
Wow how life has turned its pages.
16 months ago, I was nobody. I was just a person, walking around lacking a personality and a mind. I was a body, a skeleton, lost in the depths of sadness. My mind was elsewhere, mimicking my heart which was also in this elsewhere optical illusion of depth. Failing to even breathe, cries made up my daily motions. Sleep was my drug, and i was the abuser. I was nonexistant, and I didn’t even know it.
12 months ago, it was the beginning of my birth. I was finding myself, tears became less frequent and I was in a whirlwind of new beginnings and happiness brought upon fresh faces and new friendships, no one knew my life story or embarrassing situations and I didn’t know theirs. I was a newborn baby, leaving her moms cradle, seeing the first fresh human face emerge with bright colors and daffodil daisies. I was finally finding my sense of hapiness.
9 months ago it was my birthday, the day of celebration between close friends and family members. I was finishing a mesmerizing summer filled with sunkissed days and absurd nights of parties and sleepless hours. I was bonding friendships closer with those that surrounded my daily routines. It was also the beginning of new romances, one in particular.
6 months ago was the end of a romance, maybe even a love. It was my first heartbreak, first real sadness over a useless guy whom made up my daily routines. It was the end of his chapter in my life, and the end of the Dakota I used to know.
4 months ago I cheered and kissed chaotic boys to congratulate and welcome the new year, full of possibilities and endless dreams. I was mentoring my soul, teaching it to live it up until the day of my death, the day I see my last sunset and moonrise.
1 month ago, I began my journey to the end. I met new people, and finally felt confident in my own skin, no matter how shaky I may feel.
2 weeks ago, I ran into an old friend, Ironically. He is adorable and I very much hope to get the chance to forego what I could see becoming a great journey as friends, or even more. His spicy lingo and exotic nature is what attracts me to him.
1 week ago, I was messaged my my old lover…. my first love. His short sentence made me hold a breathe, but no longer left me skipping beats or shaky in the bones. I brushed his words off, and realized the difference between me and him…. he will always be he. I am me, but never the me I was yesterday, or the me I am tomorrow… just me being whomever I FEEL like being.
Friday Night, I got to hangout with this new friend.
Saturday Night, I danced my life away to the beat of prom music and long swaying dresses. My date seemed normal, to normal for me. His handsome exterior leads me to close the door on his face, sadly. We danced until the clock striked midnight, leading us to the afterparty. There was no afterparty, just a bed… that led me to saying no.
Sunday Night, I receieved a special call from a certain boy… he is everything I could be looking for, so close to everything it makes me never want to leave this horrid place I call home…because he lives here.
Presently, as I type this out in my indie slop of a room, beneathed my crunkled sheets and hot lap computer leaving me leg marks, I think of what would be and what should be. Am I who I was 16 months ago ? I feel spiritually, emotionally, and attractively different. My head is twisting through water slides as I listen to my favorite music….I take a glance away from the computer screen and realize something…I am finally happy where I am in my life. Maybe it will only last for a moment, a second or even a day…but this is the happiness everyone wishes for, this is the seeking moment I work day to day to achieve, this moment makes all the challenges and whirlwinded emotions seem worth it.
After six months of wishing, wanting just one word.
He came to me and mumbled, but it wasnt heard.
I ignored the voice in my heart.
Logic has won and decided not to start.
The past deserves to be in the pAst.
I say goodbye, to you and your trap.
your the one that hurt me
your the one that lied
your the one that left scars
&made me loose my pride.
When waking up in the morning, words are on my mind. Throughout the day, everything perceived on the outside brings out the dialect of the depths within myself. I’m not exactly sure when the creativity started, however, I’m not quite sure if it will ever end because I was born with it.
The aspects of art were imprinted in my brain before my first breath was ever taken in the real world. This personal gift wasn’t noticed, though, until an emotional breakdown. Five years ago, when struggling for her dear life, my grandmother passed away. When left with what seems like nothing, I searched for that something…that something that could help sweep away my emotions and leave me feeling placid. It was then when the words written blurted out like a newborn bird learning to fly. Putting my every emotion down on paper created that alliance with words. Since that day, text makes up my daily routine. Not only does poetry and literature bring out my emotions, it changes my mood as a whole. This creative outlet is my personal poison; not always negative yet not always positive.
Today I was asked, “Why pick the arts over a mathematic or science course?” This question left me at a loss for words. There are so many reasons and thoughts collapsing in my head but the phrase that was most noticed was this: “It’s personal”. Having that creativity, that outlet that allows me to bond with myself, is more important to me than any academic course or mathematical equation. When given the option of being a dreamer with creativity or an intellectual with amazing grades, I’d pick to be the dreamer. When given the option of having a high GPA or being born with the opportunities to mold myself into an amazing writer, I’d pick to become the writer. The creativity, though, shall not be lost through the academics and I am willing to go through the general courses for my future in a writing major.
Looking back at when this creativity started, I’ve realized that my grandmother’s death isn’t when my writing skills arose it’s just when they got noticed. Before the noticing of my skills, I was just as creative but didn’t know it. The progress in my writing has grown and learned from its mistakes. I do believe it’s a gift and not only has manifested my life but has taken over each and every part of my body.
“
1. Run away to Brooklyn. Rent an apartment with a claw footed bathtub. Commute to Manhattan during the week and put in hours at a menial publishing job. Drive home to New Jersey on weekends to swim in the pool and cry to your mother. Smoke Gauloises on the fire escape. Let yellowing issues of Rolling Stone and Vogue pile into a protective fortress around your bed. Listen to Cat Power. Fall asleep mostly naked beneath the duvet watching Sportscenter and drinking earl grey. Date a Yankees fan and kiss his hands on the 4 Train into the Bronx.
2. Run away to Barcelona. Eat milk chocolate magnum bars and drink cheap champagne. Burst into charming fits of laughter whenever you get embarrassed about butchering the Catalan language. Wear denim cutoffs, Dr. Pepper chapstick, and very little else. Go dancing at 3 a.m. Whiten your teeth. Tan your shoulders. Braid feathers into your hair. Perpetually wake up with sand caught in the thin cotton sheets of your tiny bed. Listen to the Rolling Stones and kiss all the longhaired boys you can get your hands on without ever having to apologize.
3. Run away to Los Angeles. Sublet a studio in Venice three blocks from the beach. Listen to top 40 radio. Go to Chateau Marmont and charge drinks you can’t afford to a long-dormant credit card. Sleep with a television actor who lives in the valley. Sleep with a musician who lives in Bel Air. Break things off with both of them when gas prices begin to rise. Find Gilda Radner’s star on the Walk Of Fame and swallow a sob when you see the filthy cement around her name is cracked. Walk through the Venice Canals until the sun sets and you forget your own name. Call your mother crying from the parking lot of a 24-hour Ralph’s supermarket. Tell her you want to come home.
4. Run away to Paris. Gaze at the pink and pistachio glow of macarons in the window on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Listen to Joni Mitchell. Meet an Argentinean man in the Latin Quarter for drinks. Melt into his accent and kiss him goodnight, but return to your apartment alone because his face doesn’t look enough like the man’s you are trying to forget. Get lost in the Richelieu Wing of the Louvre, admiring Napoleon’s fine red damask. Walk alone along the Seine in an old dress, ten-dollar shoes, and an Hermes scarf. Fumble with the locks on the fence overlooking the river. They all have lovers’ names etched into them and the girl who left the red heart-shaped lock has the same name as you.
5. Run away to Martha’s Vineyard. Write heartbroken stories during the day in front of a large fan that blows curls of humid hair across your tired face. Take a waitress job at The Black Dog at night and try hard not to drop too many trays. Learn to ride a moped. Pretend you’re a Kennedy. Listen to Carly Simon. Eat hand-churned ice cream out of waffle cones. Visit the flying horses and consider how many girls just like you have sat on the same horse clutching for the same brass ring. Get stoned and dance barefoot down the length of the eroded Jaws beach. Date a Red Sox fan. Yell at each other during baseball games, and then kiss and make up between tangled sheets.
“
5 Fantasy Exit Strategies « Thought Catalog
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