Only Living Ghost to Grace the Hall

Today is my sister's 18th birthday.


I wrote her a long letter, last night. Sort of in-re to a letter she wrote me a few weeks ago. Her's wasn't that long, to be honest, but it was. Illuminating, I suppose, if you'll pardon the Lizzie Bennet reference. She said that I loved her when no one else did. Said that it would've been easier for me to have hated her at certain times.

I hadn't been aware there had been a time when she hadn't been loved.
And now that I know otherwise, I'm sad.

The Fame of Mirrored Windows

Writers write to be remembered.

Well, that's my personal belief, anyways. We write because we want someone to look back over the words we've put on a page, and we want them to see us. Here we are, a marker-pin to prove our existence.
We lived. We wrote. We were here.

The Dreamy Notion of More

I feel like the evolution of greatness is humanities biggest white lie.

Well, one of the biggest. There's certainly a lot out there.

Doctor Who References and Late Night Ramblings

It's 3 AM- well, no, 3:24 AM- and I've started to get a little teary-eyed.


No particular reason though, to be honest. Just that lovely teenage thing were little things mosh together into one big whopping Thing, and attack you relentlessly in the middle of the night when you get up for a glass of water. Self-anxiety and confusion and resignation to aspects of the future. Anticipation and nervous excitement twisting knots in my stomach as I smile and cry all at the same time.

(I think it's pretty safe to say my time of the month may be approaching)

In Case of Amnesia, Click Here

There's a writing project, of sorts, that I want to do one day. I keep planning it out in my head, scripting sentences and considering plot points.

It's an emergency failsafe, in case I ever forget who I am.

I'm So Sick of Being Tired

I think the most tragic thing one can be depressed about is what-ifs. 

You know exactly what I mean- those fleeting possibilities of the future that seem so wonderful, but can't happen for whatever reason. Breaking up with a girl/boyfriend, and knowing that you could've made it. Taking up a job offer, but maybe you would've climbed the corporate ladder at the other? And sometimes it's not even that specific. Just a vague, general understanding of all the things you'll never have. 

I had a faint idea beforehand, but today I finally realized what's going to break my heart the most about moving in a year. 

The what-ifs. 

Oscar-Worthy Imagination at It's Finest

I used to pretend my life was a movie.

There would be certain moments, just a second's worth, of something that felt vaguely cinematic. It'd be beyond fleeting, but it was all my young self would need- I'd already be singing the crude theme and scrawling fake names with a purple glitter pen- imaginary opening credits, into a notebook.
I'd flip through the pages, pausing on the ones filled with the creators of this imaginary masterpiece, and then I'd make a point of acting as if I was on film (but, of course, was completely unaware of it. My 7-year-old acting skills were really quite something).

Happy April Fools

I never really thought I would be pleased to say the following 6 words.

My parents are getting a divorce.

Only Rainbows after Rain

Well, I certainly took my own sweet time in updating this blog, of which I'd apologize for, if not for the fact that I highly doubt anyone actually cares. Which is kinda preferable at this point, in all honesty.

You see, I've been realizing that my theory on the benefits of online socializing, being yourself and not worrying about appearances, has more flaws then I'd expected. Because the thing is, I'm not 100% myself on this blog. Nor am I 100% myself on other websites; although I am certainly more myself on online social/writing websites, I am very different facets of my personality for different sites.

Copper Sand

I feel like time must be managed as if it were a set of scales: The past and future. If you fill your days with past, obsess over everything you should of done, all the bittersweet memories and regrets, then the scales tip, and the past ultimately becomes not only your future, but your life. Admittedly, history is always doomed to repeat itself. But if you live your life in the past, it brings it to a whole other scale.

On the other hand, there's the future. When you obsess over the future, over every moment and how it will play out, what you will do in life, where you're going and what must happen, then you cease living. You're not even taking in the present, not even bothering to admire the time you have now. You're just anticipating the future, focusing your every waking moment on your far off goal. And when that happens, you're just existing in a sort of half-life, and not living.

The obvious key of course, in this theory, is balancing the scales. A fool could deduce that. But the reason for this post isn't exactly to wage philosophical about scales and timetables, so much as my utter lack of "time management", so to speak. I'm either drowning in memories, consumed with things I should've said, should've done, or I'm obsessed with the future, with all my dreams and hopes and ambitions and sometimes how pointless and unattainable it all seems.

So. Remember the good times fondly. Take heed of the bad memories, in hopes you can learn things from then. Be excited for your ambitions. Don't dread, but anticipate the future bad times.

Try to balance the scales.

Welcome to Life

I found myself wondering if I'm a psychopath this evening.

Wow. What a stellar way to open an entry, huh?

But my dad is acing the whole "testosterone raging bull" act, my mother is being annoyingly docile, my sister is. . . well, being my sister. And I'm feeling oddly unaffected by the entire situation. While my dad stormed off without us, I just hoped he'd come home soon, because I left my yarn and needles in his truck for a knitting project.

So why am I being favored? Why do I feel oddly unattached and emotionally neutral about all of this? I don't know. It's rather queer, really. I'm just sitting here, knitting and typing this. I don't really care.

I love to sleep.

And thats not me being the stereotypical teenager, who clings to the headboard like it's their only hope of salvation when their parents exasperatedly come storming into their bedroom and whack them over their heads with pillows. (i.e, Freaky Friday)

Nope, its my extreme love for dreams.

I mean, if you think about it, sleeping in general is a pretty sweet activity. You lie down on a comfy bed, wearing comfy clothes, pull on a cover/duvet/blanket/sheet and then, technically, you go visit other worlds within the confines of your mind, without even leaving your bedroom. If you seriously sit down and think it over for a while, you may realize how awesome it is.