Invisibility Cloak

I am most powerful at night. I am most vulnerable at night. The darkness is my blanket, but under it I rarely feel secure. It is a blanket that clothes me in nakedness, an invisibility cloak that exposes my innermost contortions  as I blend into the blackness around me. I am exposed to myself and no one else. I am invisible to all other people but my mind's eye, to which I am terribly, terribly visible. It sees pain inside of me that I had forgotten was stored away. It uses my body as a voodoo doll against myself. My blanket makes me uncomfortably drowsy. I am suspended in an aching, lethargic state, unable to close my eyes and submit to sleep.

I am swimming.

I am thrashing.

I make decisions for self-presevation?

My eyes, my chest, my body ache, and they pulse until I suddenly

drop off into a state of slumber.

When I wake up, I grasp desperately at the invisibility cloak around me. It appears different in the daylight, but I cannot afford to let it go. During the day, it keeps me safe. It holds me and protects me. It covers and conceals me. My contortions begin to recede, and I regain a normalcy of sorts. I am not vulnerable when the sun is shining, but I am weak.

It is funny how I have become an incarnation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

The Page I Never Noticed

I think I skipped a page as I sat quietly in the corner of the library, flying through books, my nine-year-old self putting all of her effort that was not focused on reading toward adhering to the "Be Silent" rule. And I am convinced that this page I skipped was the worst oversight I never knew I had made.

It would have been nestled in between the Rules I Never Broke (I was never one for adventure novels) and the Thoughts I Locked Inside (I chose instead to live vicariously through the lives of the girls in teen and young adult books). My lack of spontaneity and ease of being intimidated into submission by authority granted me no opportunity to peruse the hidden crevasses of the library, peeking between my packed shelves of convention and anxiety. If only I had tumbled into a pile of the other kids' books, jumbling up my normal pattern, and one of them opened to the page I needed to read and my eyes would have absorbed the rich and exciting information that would have helped me so much in the years to come. Or perhaps all it would have taken was more careful reading of what already lay in my lap, a deeper and more thorough look at what was already in front of me, and I would have noticed that the page I was reading contained a breadth of potential knowledge that would serve me well in the future.

That page is probably still sitting there, neglected and yellowing, waiting for my nine-year-old self to lay a finger upon it. However, my nine-year-old self is ten years gone, and there is no going back as far as I can tell. I am left to wonder if I can ever regain what I lost through omission. Am I forever trapped between the lines?

Les Étrangers d'Amour (or, Thoughts While I Couldn't Fall Asleep)

On Thursday night (rather, early Friday morning), my friends and I were discussing whether we would prefer to fall in love with (a) someone we had known since childhood or (b) a stranger. It was not until we parted that I came up with a defense for my answer. Knowing that my opinion could change in a year, a month, a day, I present my current thoughts on loving a stranger:

I want to fall in love with a stranger because I am a stranger to love. 

I imagine that the more familiar you are to love, the more you want to love someone familiar.

But I could be wrong.

I am tired. I am emotionally exhausted. 

I would rather fall in love with a stranger 

than with someone I have known since childhood because, 

at least for short term,

it would be easier to handle.

Perhaps it also stems from a dissatisfaction from my childhood years. 

Each year, I get farther from the reminiscing side of the spectrum and deeper into bitterness. 

Damn suburbia, damn materialistic blondes, damn popularity contests, 

damn being a smart average-looking awkward blob of girl. 

Fuck security. Fuck safety. 

Fuck being raised in a padded bubble. 

Fuck being irreversibly trained to be contained and obedient. 

Fuck anxiety and self consciousness and depression. 

Fuck lack of spontaneity.

I have lived in a box. I feel limited by the box. 

I am frozen at a juncture where my box is bulging at the seams, on the verge of bursting, 

but unable to do so.  Either I recede back to my suburban, delicate self, 

or I consciously break out of the box. 

Loving a stranger could break me out of the box.

Before I can love someone I know, I need to love a stranger.

A definition

What does it mean to be alive?
Most people say breathing, but I'm ready to believe otherwise. The moments to which people attribute feeling most alive-- the moments where you feel you are really living-- are when your breath is taken away or when you are out of breath. Neither of those things involve breathing.
If breathing is the determining factor in whether or not a person is alive, then how can I be sitting here, feeling the rise and fall of my chest, yet feel so terribly not alive? With every inhalation and exhalation, I feel the pressure within me escalade then subside. It throbs in tandem with the thump thump of my heart, propelling the blood that surges through my veins, bringing nutrients to my lungs, collecting oxygen to pump into my blood stream, at which point the cycle repeats itself. Over and over again.
I am caught in a cycle that needs to be broken. It is a foggy glass ceiling, a cramped locker, a straightjacket.  I can see there is something outside of where I am, but I can't tell what it is and I can't break through. I've been crammed in a corner all my life by a bully, but it's hard to fight the bully when she is yourself. I feel emotionally and psychological restrained to the point of it becoming physical.
My feet pace while my legs fidget while my back tenses. My fingers jitter while my hands wring while my arms slowly contract. So much energy rushes under my skin. I can feel the blood pounding, pounding, pounding through me, and I just want it to RELEASE! I want to tear myself open and let it all come out. I want need to be able to feel something flow out of me, pour out of me, until I can see it before me and just SCREAM at it. YELL at it for letting it take control of me. Beat it and punch it and kick it and throw it and cut it and burn it until it is all gone. Forever. And I will feel free.

Free.

What does it mean to be free?

One Month

It has been a month since my last post.


I have been so busy I've hardly had time to eat and sleep, though I figure I would feel less busy if I were not a freshman. Over the past 30 days, I've rollercoastered from happy to complacent to miserable to happy, around and around. I've wanted to curl in a ball and die. I've felt like the prettiest girl alive.


Ultimately, though, I do not know what to write.

hungry.

my stomach aches, and my vision

blurs until i have to focus on what

i'm looking at in order make out

definite letters and shapes. my

body needs food, my body is so

hungry

but i can't get up. i don't have the

energy to leave my room and go

get something to fill me. i've put

off eating this long- all i've eaten

today is a latte, yogurt, and two

Pop Tarts- so is it even worth it to

muster up energy i don't have just

to prowl alone, like an animal lost

from its pack, to find a little bit of

food?

it is late and my stomach's pain

blurs with the writhing of my

heart within my brittle form. why

should i appease my tangible

body when my heart cannot be

appeased? why should i taunt

myself like that? if i could, i would

feed my heartache. and if could, i

would make the aching inside of

me, the ever present aching within

me, go away forever because this

aching is more overpowering

than any physical hungry i have

ever felt. there is no remedy for

when your heart is hungry, for 

when your shelves are bare,

dust accumulating from waiting

for love to fill up its empty space.

so i'll close the pantry shelf and

sit in my room listening to songs

of passion and lost paths, suppressing

my bodily hunger until i wake

tomorrow morning, hoping i'll feel

just a bit more... together.

My heart is blonde and brands a sparkly guitar.

If I had to pick an artist whose songs consistently resonate with me, I would pick Taylor Swift. Go ahead and ridicule my taste in music, you pop-country haters. I laugh in the face of ridicule. [Muahaha.] Her words so eerily parallel with my life, it's almost like we have an ESP connection. Like we're the same person. With the exception of her being ten times more gorgeous than I am, and with the exception of her actually having a dating history, I listen to her music, and hear myself.

I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale.
I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet,
Lead her up the stairwell.


If you could see that I'm the one who understands you,
Been here all along, so why can't you see
You belong with me.


He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar,
the only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star.
He's the song in the car I keep singing, don't know why I do.


It goes on and on... and I love it. Her music is real and relatable. I can cry to it, or it can lift me up.

Thank you, Taylor, for putting into words what I can't always articulate well.

To the Boy Who Sat Next to Me,

To the boy who sat next to me today as I waited for my flu shot,

I never asked your name, you never asked mine. I didn't catch your name when the pharmacy assistant called it, and I don't know if you happened to catch mine when she did the same with me. When I think of you, there's no name associated with your face, but I do know that you have big brown eyes and shaggy, dark brown hair.

I also know that you're a sophomore in Pitt's business school and belong to AEπ. You hail from the state of Virginia, but also have some family who live north of Dallas; our little bonding moment over Dallas was fun. We're both flying to Dallas for Thanksgiving on the same day, and you said, "Maybe we're on the same flight!" You recommended that I book the supershuttle instead of taking the 28x; I thanked you for that advice.
You waited almost half an hour for your flu shot.
You are a swell enough person to carry on a conversation with a complete stranger.

Maybe I'll see you around campus. Maybe I'll see you at the airport in November. Maybe I'll never see you again. No matter whether or not I see you again, I'm glad we crossed paths.

Thank you, boy who sat next to me. You made my day just that much brighter.

(k)not

i am not a writer

my thoughts are all in
knots
and i like to pretend
(that writing will untie my stomach)

i am a fake
because i lie to myself
about myself

i am not a singer

i am not an actor

i am not an artist

i am not anything because

i do not know who i am




[i hate when i refer so much to myself it is self-centered arrogant ugly]


i am not a writer

selfish

As I groggily awoke from a nap this afternoon, and the rain hit pitter patter, pitter patter  on my window, my solitary presence on the bed slapped me like a bitter circus monkey with a wet towel. [bam, bam! mockery and bitterness *diddlydeedeedee circus music*] No one lay next to me, no one had been lying next to me to begin with for that matter, my body couldn't tell if it was warm or cold, my neck was sore, and my head still pounded with the intensity it did before I nestled under my blanket over an hour ago. An Advil and a nap of respectable length with only lackluster results... disappointing. But what else could I have expected, really?

*  *  *  *  *

young gentleman, n.

Someone who would fill that empty space with his whole being, not just with his body (I would ask for a boy if I just wanted someone to merely take up physical space). Someone to put his arm around my waist as I drift to sleep. Someone who will have his arm around me still as I stir from my slumber to the comforting tempo of his gentle breathing. Someone with whom I can stay enwrapped as the rain falls pitter patter, pitter patter, so that we'd keep each other warm and content. Someone who would massage my sore neck and kiss my forehead to "help the headache go away."

*  *  *  *  *

The lady thinks I'm still in love with him, I'm sure.
But I'm not.
The lady does not know I have an obsession,
But I'm sure I do.
I'm obsessed with the idea of what happened
(or what did not)
(or what I did)
(or what I did not)
(or what he did not tell me)
(or why he did not tell me)
and it haunts me
and it infiltrates me
and it breaks me down
to the point of I Don't Know Myself I Don't Trust Myself
so I Don't Trust
other people.

circles

"You must love yourself before you can love anyone else."
"You must love yourself before anyone can love you."

I want to
love.
I want to
Love.

I want to love myself because I love someone else and because he loves me.

selfish.

Replay

It's all too familiar, the shades of grey. The staying away from people around me. The "I don't want to eat" because my anxiety eats my hunger. The (self)doubt of all my friendships.

I thought it would be different.



It's not.

scene change

[same character. different setting.]

Good morning, moon.

We have another few hours here, together,

as the chill of the weather

outside the window panes bites

my heart as if it were sitting,

out in the biting wind,

exposed.

It is true, you know, the part

about my heart

being exposed;

I can feel a certain

prick, prick

like a woodpecker

peck, pecking on the organs

inside my ribs.

I guess the bird isn't all that's trapped in a cage.

Nothing has changed, has it, moon?

I am still floundering I am still groping I am still slipping I am still waiting I am all but

still.

[the window may now be a mirror, though it may not be, as the gentle drops of water fall either from a source outside or from a source within the room's four walls]

Your light moves me

lures me

intoxicates me

Your light forces me to confront what I bury during your absence.

You create a lesion in me,

toppling me over the edge of my

mind as it

c r   a c k    s

and I feel

e ve ry

th r e  ad

f r   a  y   i    n g.

Insert stage directions here:

[Dim the lights slowly to black out]

"Tell the ones that need to know, we are headed north."

Music has a funny way of saying things I've been trying to formulate in my head. As I head off to Pittsburgh to begin life as a university student, the Avett Brothers' song "I and Love and You" pops into my head. In fact, the title of this post is a line of lyrics from that very song. The lulling, evocative beauty in the chord strains and vocals in tandem with the compelling lyrics capture the excitement, yet nervousness, of moving away. Of starting a new life. Of finding new people and new places that will be the recipients of your time and energy, tears and laughter, stress and care.

It didn't hit me until today that I was actually leaving.

Tomorrow.

Er... today, technically, since it's now past midnight (I should probably get to sleep).

As I strolled aimlessly around the second story of my house after locking my suitcases (completely packed, at last!), a poem popped into my head. "The Walrus and The Carpenter" is one of Lewis Carroll's most well known pieces, revered by children and adults, alike. I feel that its popularity has something to do with how versatile the story is (similar to the versatility of my favorite story of all time, Peter Pan. But I digress...). The tale of the Walrus and the Carpenter can be a silly children's piece, purely for entertainment. It can also be something much more, though. The poem can be a metaphor for life, and leaving one life to start a new one, and finding that there are lots of bumps and humps and gligglyglumps in this new life that you're trying to set for yourself. It is a warning to not be too naive. It is a reminder to not take things for granted. It is a bundle of many more things I could think of if I weren't so tired.

And so, as I shut down the computer for the night, here is Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and The Carpenter:

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.


The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.


The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"


"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.


"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."


The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.


But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.


Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.


"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.


"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."


"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?


"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"


"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"


"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.


"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Another Angel in Heaven

As I try to process how fleeting life can be, only a few feeble lyrics dribble out of me. Perhaps, some day, the song will be complete. But for now, there are only scratches on a page.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

because He took you before you could wake.

I don't understand why I'm still living,

even after you stopped breathing.

How does He decide which ones to take?

They say the best die young.

I'll just keep living the best I can each day.

They say the best die young,

so young.

MDW

daughter, sister, friend, classmate

Be strong, be blessed
8/17/11

We will always remember you, beautiful girl.

scratch that.

The thing is

I always regret

blog posts

(that are positive)

/period/

The thing is

I regret

blog posts

(where I write about

faith in love being renewed)

/period/

I just do

/period/

I do not know

how to shake that

/period/

I regret

blog posts

/period/



-eleanor

pritty is me calld, no?

Some girls are born pretty.

Some girls become pretty.

Some girls lose their prettiness.

Others are just confused.

Perhaps being "pretty," though, has nothing to do with it, and perhaps I should not have used that word at all.

Maybe the correct word is Pretty.

I'm tempted to say that attractiveness is not a state of being, but a state of being in the right place at the right time. Humans, in this respect, are akin to items sold in stores.
The doll, loose brown curls and faded blue eyes, found in the antique store is ignored by the curly haired, ribbon-wearing four-year-old because it is old. It is not shiny. It is not what everyone else has or wants.
The most recent Barbie or Bratz doll, however, is feverishly stripped from the Toys R Us shelving unit because the little girl with the curly blond hair and tiny, pink-polished fingers knows that this is what she should find attractive. This is what she should find pretty.

Qualification: She does not know this is what is going on in her head. It's a subconscious processes, one we've all succumbed to without our consent at least once in our lives. Becoming programmed to think a certain way because of image overload. Why else do we shop at popular stores? Listen to Top40 radio? See box office hits at movie theaters?
External influence, that's why.

Likewise, the big Something that influences each person's tastes also has an influence in Pretty, just as it did on the little girl with the dolls.
A girl is mingling at a party with her girlfriends and sees a boy she finds attractive. She devises a way to start a conversation.
A boy is walking around campus and sees a girl who he finds to be attractive across the quad. He oh so naturally makes he way toward her to get her name and phone number.

Why do this boy and this girl find their respective targets attractive?
Experience has taught me that the answer is usually this: They fit today's definition of "hot."
Whatever that is.
I think it has something to do with wearing lots of making and looking kind of rude, or wearing an outfit that suggests, "I'm a jerk/easy," and having a personality to go along with your style.
But I could be wrong.

The fact of the matter is that I am not a girl who guys flock to. I am not a girl who is "hot." I am not a girl who gets hit on and flirted with on a regular basis by guys she hardly knows. Scratch that, I am never hit on or flirted with by guys I hardly know.
I am the old doll with the loose brown curls and the faded blue eyes sitting in the antique shop.

Until last week.

I had come to terms with not being pretty.
I had come to terms with always being the friend, not the girl.
Then, in a matter of four days, I've had a guy ask me to dinner the day after we met, and another allude to a movie date, two days after meeting each other.

Suddenly, my entire view of attractiveness and prettiness has altered, and I'm faced with the question, "What is Pretty? What is Attractive?"

Thus my conclusion that attractive is less a state of being and more a state of being in the right place at the right time.

I do not believe that cutting 9 inches off of my hair spurred this sudden interest in me,
nor do I believe that I suddenly woke up a more physically appealing person.

Especially not the latter. Oh dear, no.

I just happened to be at the movies and at the theater (respectively) when two certain guys (one at the former, the other at the latter) happened to be there at the same time as myself, and the timing was just right so as to open the door to just the right conversation that would then lead to further communication and ultimately result in talk of going somewhere.
The "going somewhere" topic brought up by him.
Not by me.
That's a first!

Now, I'm not saying I'm planning on getting involved in a relationship with either of these young men (because I'm not). I'm not saying I'm particularly interested in either of them, either (because I don't believe I am).
But perhaps I was at the right place at the right time
to restore hope in the search for a person to love.
The "pretty" factor turned into the Pretty factor. The external influence that drove the boy to the girl across the quad, and the girl to the boy at the party, and the little girl to the Barbie doll... it suddenly disappeared.
The boy suddenly switched his attention to the girl sitting alone on the floor in the bookstore. And a tottering child noticed the beauty of the faded doll.

Suddenly, Maturity awoke and punched "attractive," that sucker of an essence, in the face.

Some girls are born pretty.

Some girls become pretty.

Some girls lose their prettiness.

I am just confused.

-eleanor

Common Sense Killed the Internet Star

It's a vicious cycle, technology. To quote the possibly only hit by The Buggles, "Video killed the radio star." Before that, it was radio killed the telegraph star. It really goes all the way back to language killed the art of grunting and using hand motions to maybe convey something.

Fast forward to recent times: Internet killed... well... a lot. That's not to say it didn't bring life to a lot of things, because it did. Actually, yeah, let's play with "bringing to life." It brought to life the art of online dating, bringing people together in an alternate fashion. It brought to life an almost immediate way to communicate with people far away from you; at the click of a button, the month-long wait to get a message from Oklahoma to Lichtenstein is removed. It brought to life many business ventures, while expanding already established businesses into the trade of online sale.

However, the internet also brought to life the age of synthetic communication, the age of cyber bullying, the age of I Can Say Whatever Comes to Mind Because I'm Not Talking to This Person Face to Face. It brought to life the age of computer-screen hobbies trumping outdoor and creative hobbies.

With the internet, a slew of social networking sites came into existence, helping and hindering my generation at the same time. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without it. But this post is not for my musings on an alternate universe. This post is for reflections on an event the currently came to pass, hopefully working as a commentary for American culture today.

As with most universities, my school has a Facebook page for my incoming freshman class. As with many freshmen pages, people start talking and becoming unsettlingly buddy-buddy with each other. Maybe my class is special, but people are ALWAYS talking. ALWAYS. Every hour of every day. I consistently have new notifications about so-and-so doing such-and-such. That's great that they're having such a hunky-dory time bonding via computer screen. More power to 'em. Let's see how many stay friends once school actually starts.
The other day, though, the idea arose for the girls to make a secret group to talk about all the cute guys.
Consequently, the guys decided, "Oh, we need to do the same thing! But for guys to talk about cute girls!"

-Pause-

First: These are 17-18 year olds, remember.
Second: These are students going to an institution of higher learning that has reputable academics.
Third: Did I mention these are 18 year olds?

-Resume play-

Needless to say, the result is two petty groups based solely on connections over the internet. Quite frankly, the only connection you really have with a person over the internet is your fingers hitting a keyboard. Last time I checked, humans don't feel like plastic squares.
People seem to disregard this falseness, however, and get overly excited about posts, comments, and individuals. So much time seems to be absorbed by talking to strangers who you might not be reading correctly. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I'm waiting until I get to college actually forge friendships.

Except for the three people I've talked with to a great extent for the past two to three months. That's it for my computer-originated friendships.

Peace,
-eleanor

Dear Whoever You May Be

Dear Whoever You May Be,

My supply of words has been exhausted for quite some time, and my body now feels the wear and tear of it all. It's not a foreign sensation, no,  not at all. I've lived it more times than I care to keep tally of.
The beating of my heart turned to a heavy throbbing against my frail rib cage. The flowing of my blood turned to a coursing river of monsters clawing at my veins in a desperate attempt to escape, but to no avail.
Sometimes my hands quiver. Sometimes my limbs feel frail and unsteady.
Mostly, though, it's the inexplicable feeling of being trapped in my own body.

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I wasn't crying for myself last night. I was crying for you. I was crying out for you.
I cried a tear for needing your way of knowing exactly how I'm feeling. I cried a tear for needing your way of looking at me that says, "Things are rough, but you'll get through it. It will get better"; for needing you to hold me even when I fight it; for needing that pacifying connection we have when we're together.
I cried because I need you.
I cried because I don't know your name.
I cried because we haven't found each other yet.


Dear Whoever You May Be,

You are somewhere in the world, aren't you? I need you too much for you not to exist.
I'm sure you need me as much as I need you.

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I'll keep fighting through life till we find each other.

I promise.

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I found a song I need to share with you. Listen to it. You'll hear what my heart has been trying to articulate.

Why are you so far from me?

In my arms is where you are to be.

How long will you make me wait?

I don't know how much more I can take.

I missed you but I haven't met you,

Oh but I want to.

How I do

Slowly counting down the days

Till I finally know your name,

The way your hand feels round my waist,

The way you laugh, the way your kisses taste.

I missed you but I haven't met you.

Oh how I miss you but I haven't met you,

Oh but I want to,

Oh how I want to.

Dear whoever you might be,

I'm still waiting patiently.

-"To Whom It May Concern" by The Civil Wars

Dear Whoever You May Be,

I love you.

I miss you.

Come find me, please.

Speak.

I.

I want to write,

but can't.

I want to write,

but can't find the words.

I want to write,

but can't find the words nor the push to make those words spew out of me, fall out of me, rush out of me, even though I need the right words to empty out onto a clean page so, so badly.

I need to write.

I need to write.

II.

I want to speak,

but can't.

I want to speak,

but can't make a sound.

I want to speak,

but can't make a sound that resembles a word even close to what I need to express what I'm feeling inside, expanding, heaving, building up pressure within me till I feel like I'll...

pop.

I need to speak.

I.

Need.

Speak.

III.

I want to write and speak,

but can't.

I want to write and speak,

but can't find the trust.

I want to write and speak,

but can't find the trust within myself to trust another whose reaction could so easily be not what I think I need, or could so easily make me second-guess myself.

I already second-guess myself

without ever talking to another

person.

I need to write and speak.

-eleanor.

List of Whatnot and Whatever 3

It has been almost a month since my last post. Here's a BlogList to get things rolling again.

1. Hail to Pitt!

2. Warming up an audience with an absurdist comedy is difficult.

3. You don't have to be a 5 year old boy to think that large bruises on one's leg look really cool.

4. Today's newspaper article by my favorite columnist. Click here to read!

5. Weddings are exciting!*

6. To know that your friend is competing in a national Shakespeare competition and to be completely ecstatic for him without the slightest twinge of jealous resentment is a really good sign of a healthy friendship.

7. SEVENTY-THREE DAYS TILL HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS, PART 2 COMES OUT!!! (Oh, and high school graduation is riiiight around the corner!)

*...for the people immediately involved in the lives of the spouses and their families. They shouldn't cause extreme, eye-boggling, drool-inducing, gossip-spurring, fashion-obsessing, across-the-ocean pandemonium involving celebrity status and alarms being set for 3:00 in the morning.

Peace,

eleanor