Making myself at home

I must convince myself that no one is reading this as to "make myself at home". Perhaps the intent of this post is empty, except for preserving the purpose and "value" of this blog. I've had so many blogs. Why, I have commmited "Xanga-cide" so many times, or otherwise abandoned something into which I had poured my thoughts. Yet, I found that none of things was really worth saving until I molded that thought and shaped that thought so that someone else other than I could understand.

Perhaps that is easy for some. Perhaps there exists an easy way to blog without the explicit intention of dabbing one's ink in the trove of human experience that everyone shares, and yet find that one's fingers are guilty with the stains of that particular vault. It's hardly true that each person shares little or nothing with the person next to him or her. It's hardly true that each of our experiences is so distinctly different that each one is a discovery for all to marvel upon.

Perhaps that's what differentiates a good blog from a substandard blog, and what differentiates a rant from an intelligent path of thought. Intelligence in this dispensing of information is finding moderation that does not provoke simple sympathy, but learning and adding the color and the struggle (for lack of a better word) of the situation to one's knowledge of something that merely came up as a simple black and white image before the perusing of this intelligent entry.

It's always useful to rant. I can't deny that. One may look back and shake one's head for the spectacle and the wasted time, but it vents emotion and clears one's mind for the moment. It allows one to communicate without inflicting one's ideas on someone else. A rant may even border on intelligent, because the act of ranting usually provokes me to slow down and rethink my anger. Stil, it solves nothing. It expresses the frame of mind that existed for a particular moment, which can change so quickly.

I hate that I'm so used to being read and critiqued that I actually refrain from saying certain things until they burst into flame within my mind. Overly dramatic, I know. To argue, I must say that I've been trying to refrain from using metaphors, of late. I'm sure my history teacher is quite tired of crossing them out whenever she grades my essays.

I should be finishing up my homework right about now. Hopefully I'll remember to do another blog tomorrow.

No One Is Reading This

Of course, I know that someone is reading this, but I no longer take in mind who, when, where, or why. I think this is just a good release for whatever I have to say, without any restraint as to who might judge me as a malcontent or some sort of rebel without a cause. Perhaps I am neither, or perhaps I am both. Who am I to impose this simple decision?

I've found that script writing is much more challenging than noveling or poetry. Of course, poetry produces less content in more time, but script writing seems to be the axiom for which I reach when I write. My dialogue needs to be clever, easy to understand, believable, and yet still thought provoking and distinctly my own.

I long the day when I will write for the world, and yet answer only to myself.

Love

It's so strange how there are two areas of my life to which my heart heads when one or the other becomes too unbearable. It's as if I'm walking on a tightrope. On one end, there is a safe, but noisy and chaotic room that never seems to end in its tipping, clanging scales and understated cabarets. The other side is a room with an unending masquerade ball, in which the masks only come off when one believes too deeply. Everyone seems to look so majestic in their ball gowns and airs, while I'm still in my tight-rope walking, practical clothing desperately trying to draw on a good mask to hide the vulnerabilities and frailties.

At the moment, I'm loving the rowdy informal room a lot more. The drama that supposedly happens in show choir hasn't caught up to me until now. Of course, it's fairly mild, but that doesn't mean that it's not making me feel more vulnerable. Ironically, these buzzing rumors have helped me fit in! Still, the tight rope hasn't quite stopped wobbling. At some points, I feel as if I'm barely hanging on.

All these disappointments that I feel mix with the soap opera that runs through my head whenever I grow bored of reality. I was going to write a script about it, but I don't feel comfortable doing that. It seems to lack the artistic element that I love in poetry and that I highly tolerate and admire in novels and especially in short stories. I think I'm going to give up Script Frenzy. Maybe I'd be more commited to it if I had the time. Yet, I don't have the time or the motivation for it. Right now I'm wishing for the next noveling challenge. Apparently the Labor Day challenge had an entrance fee, so I don't think I'm going to do it. It would be fun, but I'm not sure fifty dollars is worth it. Maybe I'll just do it for my own sake and not be an official participant.

Novel Excerpt

Of course, there was no way my emotions could lay undisturbed by the deployment of the forces of reality. One moment, I held everything firmly in my palm. Every tendril of my quiet tempests was pinioned to a foam board and made to look pretty as they spread into an elaborate web. It was as if I was some sequestrated nymph, allowed to create ripples in my quiet pool and toy with the turnkeys of my imagination all I wished. A mortal was bound to stumble upon me and disparage me with his lack of grace and understanding for my privacy. It was all an act of blissful savagery. One stumble, and all my happiness would be instantly nullified by the snatching winds of change.

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Yes, it's dramatic, but everything fits once I post the entire story.

National Novel Writing Month profile:

I guess I'm ahead. But then, I'm trying to finish early. Right now I'm at the stage in which I procrastinate by going on the internet way too much.

I'm trying to reach 40000 words by the end of tonight. Wish me luck.

Challenges

In the face of a new challenge, it seems that nothing can pull me down. Gravity holds no meaning in my mind when I'm told what I can and cannot do. My mind knows it strength almost too well. I am taking on a challenge of a lifetime. This is a challenge that defies every egotistical thought I've ever possessed, every ounce of confidence and self-assurance I have ever had to wrangle to pursue the hobby of my dreams and emotions.

This is the thing that shaped me into a new person, and rained upon me like the sweet tears of spring to make me anew. It has been a bittersweet, but more memorable and beautiful entity than anything my mind has discovered within itself. It now must be tested and hounded upon to the very last word. Literally speaking. Every bit of perseverence and all the little blessings that made and will make my heart leap will now be my strength and my determination through something that I've never even come close to perceiving.

In a way, this challenge is a monster. In a way, this challenge is a friend. If I follow through, this challenge may change my life.

I accept it with no fear and no worries. The bull in my mind has been unleashed, not knowing the source behind its anger nor its drive, but knowing only the red flag in the distance and the taunting matador.

National Novel Writing Month- November 2008

Look out, world. I'm coming.

Goodbye and Hello

Goodbye, summer. If you were even present to begin with. My ambitions have robbed me of my youth. In my desperation, my mistakes look more beautiful on the paper than my successes. Time "off" is not time at all.

Fantasies of a life free of school run through my head, but I know for sure they will never be. In all of them, I am fourteen. I am young, meandering through the world wide-eyed. I am a freshman, and the world is new to me. I have no limits. But I am fifteen, in reality. I've been fifteen for months, really. I have responsibilities and sins, no matter how much I hate the latter and rely on the former to keep me in check. I have pressure and disappointment. I have boundaries and people telling me what to be and exactly what to do. I have people telling me to be myself, but I am vehemently shot down when I try to be myself and let my heart find its own way.

In reality, I am a formless bit of clay. Perhaps my true passion will heat up enough and bake my soul in determination, so I may mold the world to my liking and become a sculpture, an unsung legend to sit in the museums of minds and hearts until the fair hands of nature turn me down to let another take my place. Perhaps my heart will harden and cruel reality will hammer its awful flame into me, so that I may be another plain piece of plain ceramic to bring to the table of the idols of money that run this cold world. Or perhaps I will be trampled underfoot like any piece of chewing gum, wildly sweet and defiant by nature and a nuisance to the conformity and chains of the world.

I am excited for my first day, tomorrow. I may spin myself round and round the carousel of my metaphors and dreams, soaring through time and only seeing the blaze of color, but I am human. The wheel of life does not spin without me. I am not a pebble on the side of the road. I am happily caught in the primitive energy of life itself, as that is my purpose and intent. I cannot help but keep up. That is a luxury that I too often take for granted. It has always been present, after all. How can that be enough?

The world lies before me in a blank canvas. I may have the same pencil as all the others, but even then, there are many hues between black and white.

How Do I Answer Myself?

How do you go back when you've thrown yourself out?

How do you step forward when you don't know what you're leaving behind?

How do you ask for something to be returned to you when you didn't know you had it to begin with?

How do you refuse something you tried so hard to take?

How do you let yourself fall into it when you don't know if anyone will catch you?

How do you pull yourself out when your heart doesn't want to argue?

How do you keep walking when the light is so far behind you?

How do you stop when you never knew you were walking?

How do you run straight into the line of fire when you have all the bullets, but no gun?

And yet....

How do you keep hiding in the shadows when your war has already been won?