From Her Perspective

*Disclaimer: This wasn't written about me, but from the view of one of my closest friends.

I walk to school alone, with my head down, so nobody will see the tears streaming down my face. My only worry right now is whether or not I'll be able to wipe them away before my friends see. Are they my friends? I think so. They're all I have left. I'm sure that if they found out what I've been hiding for all this time, they wouldn't want to be my friends anymore; unless those thoughts are already in their minds.

So many secrets, none of them good. Life's gotten so hard, especially lately. Don't get me wrong, I've been feeling like this since elementary school, where I was nothing but the freak that stayed separate from everyone else. They wouldn't understand, particularly at such a young age. When your only homework is to colour a picture and stay inside the lines, there's no way they could have possibly made sense of my sadness. I can't fathom it either, not even now.

I didn't have any friends back then, but now I do. Most of them are idiots, though. How hard is it to actually take one look at me and realize that no matter how many times I say it, I'm not okay. I don't even remember the last time I was. Don't they notice the scars? I've given up on trying to hide them because nobody really pays enough attention to me to notice. I mean, honestly! What kind of regular person would carry a pair of nail-clippers around with them, even at school? Maybe if, for once, they would ask me what I did last night, I would tell them the truth. I would tell them that I sat alone, in the middle of the night, in a t-shirt, in a freezing cold field. They would maybe even find out that I've been battling the option of suicide for years now. But I know they wouldn't stick around long enough to listen. I'm used to being ignored and forgotten.

Some of my friends are like me, though. They're definitely not as bad, but they're someone I can relate to for the first time in my life. Even though they constantly say otherwise, I know I annoy them with my feelings of desolation. Sometimes, if they have nothing better to do, they'll try to make me laugh. Rarely, they'll succeed. I'm just too sad and alone. When they ask what's wrong, I'll occasionally tell them I'm tired. Then, they will walk away, assuming I didn't get enough sleep. That's where they're wrong. I'm tired. Tired of feeling sad; tired of wanting to cry all the time; tired of the thoughts that reside in my head; tired of life; tired of living. I'm tired of it all.

I walk home alone, with my head down, so nobody will see the tears streaming down my face. My only worry right now is whether or not I'll be able to let myself survive until the next day.

From The Ground Up

From the ground up,

We rise to success;

Encouragement and devotion

Make us become our best.

From the ground up,

We grow to be great;

Well-grounded on Earth,

Our hearts cannot hate.

From the ground up,

We sprout out love;

Strong roots hold us firm

Always equal, never above.

From the ground up,

We reach for the sky;

We have the motivation,

All that's left is to try.

Insert Grunt of Despair Here

He was right there in front of me. All I had to do was talk to him, which was kind of hard considering the fact he was the first one in a long time to make me feel all giddy and nervous (in a good way). Most of the time, though, I could manage a few short sentences. We talked every day. I actually texted him, even though I hate participating in such a pointless activity. I just wanted to talk to him. He told me he thought I was amazing. He told me, and I quote, "Hi! -" and "hehe :D." I heard from my friend that he liked me. I also knew he was planning to possibly ask me out. I was starting to like him. It could have been incredible. It could have been perfect.

And then I had to go and mess it all up. I guess that's really just my regular routine.

Maybe it was because I didn't text him those nights. Maybe I said something wrong. One day, instead of walking me down the school hallway and hugging me good-bye, he just stopped talking to me. For a few weeks, he wouldn't even make eye contact with me in class. He wouldn't sit beside me, he wouldn't talk to me, he wouldn't smile at me, he wouldn't even glance my direction. And it hurt.

Now, just to top it all off, I suddenly can't stop thinking about him. My feelings seem to be growing towards this individual, and nothing will ever happen because I missed my chance; possibly even ruined it. I'm pretty sure he's moved on and found another girl whose company he enjoys, although I know he's still single at the moment. I want him to be happy, of course, but all I can think of now is what could have been if I wasn't so darn socially awkward, and that the girl he may be starting to like is not me.

Right now, I probably sound like some obsessed, boy-crazy, drama queen whom strives for attention, but my blog is the only place I can vent about such things and not be judged, resulting in multiple, nearly consecutive, posts about guys. Such topics cause me a lot of stress and frustration.

Anyway, I talked to him for the first time in three weeks last friday, as he came to sit in the seat behind me in class, which was also for the first time in three weeks. As far as I can tell, he doesn't hate me. That's a pretty good re-start, right?

You should know that he is in our school's Drama production; a production in which I am partly responsible for moving the sets, hence the reason I have to be at all the same shows as he is. Today, there was a dress rehearsal. He and I had a five-second conversation during which I probably blushed like an idiot, most likely resulting in a slightly creeped out, embarrassed, awkward, attractive, young male responding to whatever stupid remark I previously made towards him. What made it worse was that his costume for the scene was a suit and tie. That always gets me. (Something about a well-dressed guy is like the icing on the cake for me.) Then I get even more awkward (which I didn't even think was possible), causing him to sense my awkwardness and, on top of him already being awkward, proceed to a whole new level of awkwardness almost as bad as mine. Then what do you get? A couple of awkward, red-faced, uncomfortable, nervous, teenagers. Awkward, right?

Switching directions to look on the bright side for a moment, I guess I should be thanking him for letting me realize that I have managed to get over my past. For the first time in a long time, I felt something towards another guy and I think I'm ok with it. Having a heavy weight of sadness lifted off your shoulders can be a wondrous thing, and he allowed me to experience that sensation once again.

Maybe we still have a chance. Maybe he hasn't completely given up on me. Maybe I will end up happy. I know those hopes are just mere possibilities, but for now, they're all I can afford.

Written Paradise

I love to read. It's as simple as that. I would rather burry my nose in a novel for the day than go out into cold reality and be amongst society. If given the choice of going to a party with all the cool kids or staying at home, on my personal reading couch, with a great book in my hands and hot green tea on the table beside me, I would probably choose the latter.

Something about being able to escape the real world and live within pages, right next to my favourite characters, comforts me. It's soothing for me to be able to start reading and, in a sense, enter another space or reality and ignore whatever is actually going on around me. My mother, I'm afraid, doesn't seem to find the same pleasure in it as I do because she, for one, hates being ignored (even though I honestly can't help it… most of the time…) and having to repeat the same statement more than once; but I assume most mothers are like that. When I read, it feels like I, even if it's only for a moment, seize to exist. Instead, I take my stand inside the book, following the characters on their countless adventures. In my mind, I could reach out and feel this written world as if it were the one I were born into. Honestly, I think I prefer it that way.

Almost every time I finish a book or series, I either feel a grand sense of elation and pride, or I fall into a quiet, thinking state where I go through each event in the book, wishing my life could be somewhat as amazing as what I've just finished reading. It almost gets depressing at times. I start to feel lonely because I don't have a story-book romance, grand adventures, countless exciting mysteries, or what ever traits or powers one of the characters may have had in his/her little fantasy world. Once the cover closes, I get whisked back to reality. Boring old reality. Boring old me. Nothing special, barely tolerable.

Maybe the only way to escape these feelings are to fight back at them with a written world of my own. This time, though, I will take the place of the main character, although probably under a different name. The pen will be my paintbrush, the paper an easel. I will finally have power over my own life, even if it doesn't really exist. I can be free to dream and transfer my musings onto the paper. Words. That's all I need. Words and maybe a little bit of time.

Maybe real life would be better if it weren't real life at all.

Why Must We Fall? (Owl City Blog Re-blog)

Being an avid reader of Adam Young's blog, I can't help but be touched and/or inspired by everything he posts. One specific post, however, has managed to capture my upmost attention for the second time. The post titled, "Why Must We Fall?" captivates me, making me travel into a very deep thought on life. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to place my finger on just what causes me to do so.

Without further ado, may I present to you, dear reader, "Why Must We Fall?", a re-blog from the Owl City Official Blog:

One of my favorite stories in the world is a short chapter taken from Austrian author Felix Salten’s incredible 1923 novel Bambi, a Life in the Woods. The story of the little deer itself is quite a bit darker and melancholy than the Disney movie, but if you find inspiration in anthropomorphic literature, I highly recommend it. The tale is pure, moral, sterling and virtuous — all things I find rare and unfamiliar among 95% of modern novels on today’s shelves.

Every year about the time the autumn leaves start falling, I dig Bambi out of my bookshelf because of a chapter concerning two introspective oak leaves entitled, Winter. It’s poignant and beautiful and I wilt and smile at the same time because Salten’s words benevolently remind me that life is fragile and even the smallest moments should be cherished dearly. I like how subjective and sobered I feel after reading the chapter. I can’t wait to read it to my son or daughter someday when he/she inquires about the subject of death (and even more excited to further explain that death isn’t the end for followers of Christ) but that’s another story.

A brilliant radio dramatization of the chapter recorded in the late 50’s by Ted Strasser:

The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow’s edge. They were falling from all the trees. One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to its very tip.

“It isn’t the way it used to be,” said one leaf to the other.

“No,” the other leaf answered, “So many of us have fallen off tonight we’re almost the only ones left on our branch.”

“You never know who’s going to be next,” said the first leaf. “Even when it was warm and the sun shone, a storm or a cloudburst would come sometimes and many leaves were torn off, though they were still young. You never know who’s going to be next.”

“The sun seldom shines now,” sighed the second leaf, “and when it does, it gives us no warmth. We must have warmth again.”

“Can it be true,” said the first leaf, “can it really be true that others come to take our places when we’re gone, and after them still others, and more and more?”

“It is really true,” whispered the second leaf. “We can’t even begin to imagine it, it’s beyond our powers.”

“It makes me very sad,” added the first leaf.

They were silent a while.

Then the first leaf said quietly to herself, “Why must we fall?”

The second leaf asked, “What happens to us when we’ve fallen?”

“We sink down.”

“What is under us?”

The first leaf answered, “I don’t know. Some say one thing, some another, but nobody knows.”

The second leaf asked, “Do we feel anything, do we know anything about ourselves when we’re down there?”

The first leaf answered, “Who knows? Not one of all those down there has ever come back to tell us about it.”

They were silent again. Then the first leaf said tenderly to the other, “Don’t worry so much about it, you’re trembling!”

“That’s nothing,” the second leaf answered, “I tremble at the least thing now. I don’t feel so sure of my hold as I used to.”

“Let’s not talk anymore about such things,” said the first leaf.

The other replied, “No, we’ll let be. But — what else shall we talk about?” She was silent, but went on after a little while. “Which of us will… which of us will go first?”

“There’s still plenty of time to worry about that,” the other leaf assured her. “Lets remember how beautiful it was, how wonderful, when the sun came out and shone so warmly that we thought we’d burst with life. Do you remember? And the morning dew and the mild and splendid nights?”

“Now the nights are dreadful,” the second leaf complained, “and there is no end to them.”

“We shouldn’t complain,” said the first leaf gently. “We’ve outlived many, many others.”

“Have I changed much?” asked the second leaf shyly but determinedly.

“Not in the least,” the first leaf assured her. “You only think so because I’ve got to be so yellow and ugly. But it’s different in your case.”

“You’re fooling me,” the second leaf said.

“No, really!” the first leaf exclaimed eagerly, “believe me, you’re as lovely as the day you were born. Here and there may be a little yellow spot, but it’s hardly noticeable and only makes you handsomer, believe me.”

“Thanks,” whispered the second leaf, quite touched. I don’t believe you, not altogether, but I thank you because you’re so kind. You’ve always been so kind to me. I’m just beginning to understand how kind you are.

“Hush,” said the other leaf, and kept silent herself, for she was too troubled to talk anymore.

Then they were both silent. Hours passed.

A moist wind blew, cold and hostile through the treetops.

“Ah, now,” said the second leaf, “I…”

And then her voice broke off. She was torn from her place and spun down.

Winter had come.

Unrealistic Expectations

There is something you should know about me: I don't like having expectations. Every time I decide to let loose and imagine the many possibilities of something, I always get let down. This is why every time someone curious enough asks me what I would look for in a potential lover, I would laugh and tell them that I'll take whatever I can get even though this statement is false.

Late nights of my entire life have been spent trying to picture my perfect partner. I still to this day cannot bring my mind to conjure up such precise details that would construct the face and body of my "dream guy." I can, however, state some (many) qualities that I would possibly (definitely) search for in someone I would consider picking first for a movie or some other luxury.

I'm not one to set such high standards or expectations of other people, but I believe that when it comes to a case where a human being could be someone you could live the rest of your life beside, it is acceptable to do so.

Behold: The list.

I want a guy that:

-Will write me a poem or just writes poems in general

-Wears cardigans

-Can make me laugh for real

-Enjoys vintage cartoons

-Doesn't take things too far too fast

-Won't make me feel pressured

-Will play board games with me

-Listens to music other than what's on the radio

-Plays an instrument

-Doesn't do drugs or smoke

-I can trust

-Won't hate me or think differently of me because of my secrets

-I can relate to

-Won't give up on me

-Respects me

-Respects my friends

-Isn't clingy, but isn't all over other girls

-Likes Pirates Of The Caribbean

-Won't tell me he loves me until at least a year and a half of dating

-Will call me beautiful every once in a while; not over-using it

-Will make me believe it

-Is a little less messed up than I am

-I can drink tea with

-Will like me for who I am

-Will give me some space, but will also ask me to hang out often

-Likes going for long walks

-Will watch the clouds with me

-Philosophizes

-Likes animals and kids

-Is quiet at first, but funny when you get to know him

-Will shove ice-cream in my face

-Will understand that I don't like to text and will find another way to contact me

-Won't kiss me until our fourth (or more) week of actually dating

-Will hold my hand

-Won't touch my butt. It creeps me out

-Enjoys getting dressed up

-Wears bow-ties

-Will match the colour of my clothes for special occasions

-Hates alcohol with the same passion I do

-Understands I despise calling people on the phone first

-Could break my heart, but wouldn't dream of it

As The World Walks By

Imagine how many people you walk past or lay eyes on each day. You may know some of their names, but you may not be entirely aware of their story. The average person will come across hundreds of people each day and in such a populated area such as a mall, concert stadium, or city sidewalk, I wouldn't be surprised if that amount doubled or even tripled.

That young, blonde girl whom tells you the cost of the wool sweater you decided to purchase; the business man in the Fedora that bumps into you on the street, hurrying to some location unknown to you; the fat guy in the apron whom swipes your evaporated milk and canned bread across the scanner; the sad, old man huddled against the wall on the sidewalk, unshaved and dirty, asking for coins. Who are they, really?

It's enthralling to think of how I can see or meet plenty of people each day and I may never come across them again for the rest of my life. I probably won't even notice. Just like that, someone has beed disregarded and forgotten. You may not have known them, but they've been pushed aside all the same. Fascinating? Sad? Shocking? Confusing? All of the above?

Sometimes I like to watch people. Not in a creepy way, if that's even possible, but in a fashion strictly reserved for observation. I take note of how they walk or how their facial expressions change with the sights they see. I'll even allow my ears to catch fragments of conversations I'm not even a part of just to see what's going on in someone else's life. It catches me off guard, occasionally, the things one can pick up on when it comes to human behaviour. Some regular humans don't notice how some people's faces or eyes can give away the emotion of a thought they are having or how the shoulders of a stranger suddenly tense when they walk into a crowd. I find it interesting to see how someone can be comforted by something as small as holding something in their hands as they walk.

Still find it all a little peculiar? I don't blame you. I'm a peculiar person.

They say, whomever "they" may be, that every single person has a "twin" somewhere in the world; that there is another person out there living a normal life, completely unaware of your existence. My whole life has been spent wondering if this statement is true or not. There have been claims of people meeting their supposed twin and realizing how similar they are in appearance or personality, but then again, there have also been alleged sightings of dragons and unicorns. You never know what to believe these days.

My goal in life is to find my "sister-from-another-mister" and give her a high-five. That way, I can say I high-fived myself and not sound like the loser I usually come across as. Who knows? Maybe she's right where I'd least expect to find her…

I Am Broken

What happens when

You forget how to love?

Am I supposed to move on,

Or maybe give up?

Do I throw in the towel

And lay down to rest?

Or pretend it's alright,

Place my head on his chest.

If he doesn't know,

Can he really get hurt?

Then again, I shan't lie;

It just makes things worse.

Do I fake it and act

As though my heart is one whole?

Should I make myself an actress

And take on that role?

When your life is a mess

and is falling apart,

Survival is priority,

Forget my lousy heart.

What happens when

You forget how to love?

I just can't move on,

So instead I'll give up.

I've Nearly Forgotten

It's funny how fast some things can change. One minute, I'm sitting all alone in math class laughing at the jokes some guy I've never met before keeps cracking, the next I end up texting him for three and a half hours straight. I'll be thinking about how he probably doesn't even know I exist and in a blink of an eye, I find out he likes me.

Now this is where things get difficult:

1.  One of my best friends was just making fun of him with another one of our friends the other day, and it just makes her knowing about how I feel all the more awkward. I don't want her to laugh at me or make fun of me because of who I like. Her being my friend and all, I probably have nothing to worry about; but being the paranoid human being I am, I can't help but approach the situation with caution.

If there is one single thing in the world I hate to be insulted about besides my body, it would be about whom I find attractive. To be honest, I don't think anyone but myself should have a say in who I like since they aren't me. It really irks me when she's basically pretending to be all excited for me when in reality, I know she thinks it's weird.

2.  I am both socially awkward and challenged and I'm definitely not the smoothest person around when it comes to guys. I'm used to having the guy I like end up laughing in my face and getting my heart broken in the end. For me, it's normal to have the only guys whom actually like me become creepy and want to follow me home even thought they know I don't feel the same. In no way am I actually used to having the guy I'm smitten by actually like me in return. In no way do I actually view myself as beautiful or pretty, or even worth the time it takes to get to know me. I think of myself as a helpless screw-up that anyone in their right mind would stay away from. I've gotten used to it.

I guess what I'm terrified of now is just the fact that I'll probably mess it all up. I've had two heartbreaks worth crying about so far in my sad excuse for a life and both of them were almost all my fault.

I was just trying to be nice because I didn't want to hurt him.

All I wanted was to find out the truth and to hear him say he was sorry.

And then it all came crashing down on top of me, leaving me with just enough room for the tears to slowly trickle down my face and disappear into the pile of rubble that is now my life.

The point I'm trying to get across here is that I'm scared. Scared to date; scared because I don't know how to date; scared to be happy; scared to love; scared to be loved; scared I'll ruin it all and make him hate me; scared of breaking his heart; scared of him breaking mine.

This is no proper way to live, but it's the way I unwillingly choose to. Cowering under the sheets, waiting for someone or something to make it all better and worth while. Now I may have possibly found that for the moment and all I want to do is go back into hiding.

3.  My heart feels so mixed up inside. It's almost like a vehicle that has been sitting in the garage underneath a thick layer of dust getting dragged back out onto the open road. The brittle gears, rusted with all the complicated experiences they've ever had to endure, slowly start to move. Fresh oil is added and for the first time in a long time, the antique starts itself up again and takes the risk of breaking down just to venture out into the great unknown.

I feel as if I have nearly forgotten what it feels like to have that space in your heart occupied once again by someone new — someone different. That "fuzzy" feeling you get when you see him, the way it sometimes feels like there's no one else in the room except for you two when you talk to him, the feeling of possibly being wanted. I welcome it all back like I would an old friend: Openly, but with extreme caution, as if what I just did may come back to haunt me in the future.

All I can do now is hope that the chance I'm taking will pay off, at least for a little while, resulting in happiness. With him entering my life these past few days, I finally remembered what it felt like to have a real smile crawl upon my face. I can now recall the sensation of having a rosy blush spread throughout my cheeks — one that was not caused due to some embarrassing incident — simply because he asked for my phone number. It truly is funny how fast things can change.

Because I Feel Like It

I write words. I don't know how many or what point they will be forced into proving, but I write them down anyway. Sometimes they go on my laptop, sometimes on a full sheet of loose-leaf, but most often they happen to appear on little scraps of ripped paper. I have quite the collection of those all over my bedroom. Song titles and their designated band or artist, poems, mere reminders, or perhaps even lyrics I've written for a song I plan to compose. I don't know. They're just there.

Letters turn into words. Words turn into sentences. Sentences turn into paragraphs. Sometimes it goes on like this for quite a while. For me, writing helps me overcome whatever emotional pain I'll be experiencing at the time. That being said, I write a lot.

It's sort of become a kind if uncontrollable impulse. Once a pen is grasped within my ugly little hands, you never know what words will flow through me and onto the paper. You can probably imagine how awkward it is for my math teacher to be sitting at home, watching Scooby-Doo or whatever it is teachers like to watch and marking my homework only to come across a little depressing poem sloppily hand-written at the bottom of the sheet and having to deal with the look she gives me as she hands it back the next day. Said expression is not exactly one would want from the person determining whether you'll make it to the next grade or not.

An abundance of all my mindless creations never even get to reach anyone else's eyes. The main reason for this is mainly because the majority of what I write is too personal and private to share. So they sit, saved on my computer, thrown in a drawer, or stuffed in my backpack, hidden from the rest of the world. Their mere existence is unannounced to every passer by. Only my mind contains the knowledge needed to find them in their little hiding spots.

Sometimes I get the urge to write and it simply cannot be ignored. And sometimes I want to go to Starbucks, curl up with a cup of hot-chocolate and write the day away. But I can't because Starbucks is too expensive and they'd probably kick me out after lurking there for more than half the afternoon.

I don't imagine myself to be the best writer in the universe, but it makes me happy so why not?