Stories and Starlight

aspiration (n.) |   steadfast longing for a higher goal, earnest desire for something above one. I. there's a screen in front of me, a keyboard under my fingers, a tune in my ears, but it's not enough to bring me out of my head. there's tomorrow in front of me,  and today's passing before my eyes, but no song in my heart, no words for my pen, no exit for my emotion. it sits and swells inside, bringing tears that threaten to spill over my smile. I don't know what to do about tomorrow, I don't know what to do about myself. II. I told you I didn't want to be just another face in the crowd. you said I would be just that unless I changed, and I don't want just that: I want to be more, to do more, to live more -- but all I do is feel  more, and the feelings bring me  down  into  myself. III. feelings are supposed to be liberating, but instead it seems they're limiting they consume me, like a river with nowhere to run they build until they pool, but never ...

In January, roads and journeys began and came to an end. Namely, I turned eighteen (the end of "childhood") and began Prospective Internship. I also saw some new opportunities for my acting journey. I met a professional actor, we connected, questions and advice were exchanged, and the chance of more acting training in the future was brought up. ( I feel such hope for the future I just know I've got to be on the right path, I thought.) In February, my heart was broken. For someone with no real experience in romantic relationships, I'd been struggling with my feelings for a while. That month, I wrestled with the growing realization that my romantic feelings and my real-life goals and convictions didn't align. That month, reality also slapped me in the face, and it stung. ( I hate this. But at least I know it'll serve as fuel for my poetry,  I sighed.) In March, my to-do list was filled to the seams. I had the unique experience of getting to teach a class about ...

I tried to write about love, but   everything I want to express has already been written. (a shelf weighed down by vinyl records, decades of lyricisms for love and heartbreak.) I forced myself to write about love, but  I can't remember what I saw in you the first time -- I don't even know if I want you anymore.  (a case file with faded photographs, all proof too dated and aged for the detective.) I started to write about love, but  it strained my thoughts and muddled my feelings too much to try. (a never-ending book, an unsolvable puzzle, pages and pieces scattered over the floor.) I wanted to write about love -- about you --  but (a smudged page, gray marks from words I tried to take back.)   at least I know I tried.

I. It was dinner time when I wrote him a note. Pulled out a pen and covered one, two  sky-colored sticky notes front and back with neatly printed marks. You’re a great friend to have. Stay in touch. Phrase it as a fact, write it as an order. Finally finding the courage in my quick-beating heart to  be upfront, straightforward --  a heady rush of newfound strength. To approach, but not to ask if he feels the same, and never to know what might happen if he did. (Cover it all up in friendship terms,  can’t let on,  can’t let go.) II. Sometimes he’ll give a smile, sometimes hey, how are you. Sometimes a hug. Sometimes not even a pale blue glance. Scan the room, find him, anticipation rising... and I feel the drop, the b     u         m              p                ...

hello . it's been awkward. six hours and thousands of miles but not a word was said to  bridge the gap, only a sprinkling of laughter: crumbly plastery filling,  forced lightness, because we can't seem to accept the darkness:  that cramped pretense we put up instead, a poor protection for what should be spoken, but hangs out to dry on the fine line of silence,  waiting, perhaps, for when we turn and (actually) say  hello. it's been tiring. three years and thousands of conversations but hardly a word was said to  bridge the gap, only a sprinkling of outings: flimsy sugary filling, like melting ice cream, because we can't seem to have a full meal, that duty called "quality time" by convention ,  hiding the longing for something substantial but giving in to habit just one more time, waiting, perhaps, for when we try to (really) say hello. it's been difficult. one childhood and thousands of memories but not a word I've said to bridge the gap, only a scrapb...

why couldn't it be me? every time I remember, there's a hollow in my heart and no one knows how deep it goes: not because my heart is empty but because I'm so full of desire someone's out there in a place I want to be in a role I want to play but I'm the one who prayed I'm the one who crafted the dream I'm the one who read the books and wrote character studies I'm the one who ran deep into my own ambition and all I have left are saltwater tears and a heart overfull,  over years of dreaming and nowhere to go with it. why am I here? what happened to the promises? and maybe I'm in denial, but what do I have to grieve? maybe losing these dreams is like losing lives; except these lives never existed outside of me,  so maybe a part of me is lost too. what a puzzle grief is; what a puzzle I am. worlds collide behind my eyelids  but the world outside my window leaves much to wish for, and desperation drifts into the mix. how much longer do I have to wait? Yo...

Belated stream-of-consciousness birthday post! It's a mix of what I wrote in my journal, what I posted on Instagram that day, and some other thoughts to pull it all together. Italicized lines are from the song " Crossing a Bridge " from the Anastasia  Broadway musical. I've messed around with this writing style before, although I don't think I've ever published anything like it. It was very enjoyable -- that is, once I figured out where I was going with it.

via

"Who I am and who I wanna be cannot connect; why? .... I know I like to preach to always be yourself / but my emotions make me feel like i am someone else Me and pride had made a pact that we don't need no help / which feels like I'm at war inside myself but I forgot the shells  I hold my issue up for all to see, like show and tell / A lot of people know me, but not a lot know me well."  from " WHY " by NF

i wouldn't have known if i was alone,  i wouldn't have known  what it is  to step up  to stand up to speak up to grow up. if i was alone,  i wouldn't have known  how it feels to reach for a dream  to fail to fall into a sea of words holding me up, saying "it's not the end," "get up,"  and "try again," "fall, but fall forward." your words guide me onward. you've offered me an hand and pulled me up and now, i can't say it enough: thank God i'm not alone, because then i wouldn't have known what it means to love. _________________________ dedicated to each and every person who has been a light to me during my years in ICC (plus my mom). i think you all know who you are <3 poem: September 25, 2019 photo: January 16, 2020 at ICC's IGNITE Winter Advance, Cedine Ministries Camp, Spring City, Tennessee

I. the poem look up...  i see you crying, tired of trying thought the day would be easier than this the light stops shining, night is blinding can't find your way walking with your eyes on the ground so look up you'll never know how much goes on above you look up you'll never know how far you might reach just look up there is so much to wonder at if you only look up 'cause there's so much to wonder at, if you only look up _______________________________________________________________ II. the story  it was an early start to the day, and i was not yet over the "i'm-not-a-morning-person" blues. all of a sudden a family member (who was slightly more awake) called my attention to the ceiling. right there, clear as day, was a rainbow. not a tiny speck of color, but a real beam of visible light. my first reaction was to take a photo of it. my second reaction... "wait, where'd it come from?" somehow, the lig...

_________________________________________________________________________________ "Do something fun." FUN? What's fun? Lately the things I once did simply because I loved them have become almost like work. Simply tasks, little boxes to be checked off. And not that there's anything wrong with checking off the boxes (I love the feeling) but still... Where's the heart? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? Goals and ambitions can only take you so far. You know how the saying goes, all writers have writers' block, all artists have periods of no inspiration. And I know for every burst of inspiration there will be twice as much the need for determination, but all the same... Where's the heart? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? Discipline can only take you so far. I've lived so long in this endless round of to-do lists and deadlines and assignments that it has become my life. That kind of life means you wil...

Dear me, When you’re tired, turn your thoughts into poetry. When you’re angry, rearrange your armored walls until they open again. When you’re hurt, hurry to pour it out on the blank pages of a book. When you’re dying for things to be different, dare yourself - and find a way to change it. Don’t let your ugly feelings stay that way. Don’t leave them locked away. Let them out, but make them beautiful.