Why I Can’t Write

My poems/stories are inspired by my emotions, or what has happened in my life. The summer between eighth and ninth grade was one of the saddest summers in my life, but I wrote more during those two months then I have in my whole life. Now, after I’ve adjusted, have settled into my little digit that I’ve created at my school, there’s nothing to write about. I go to an all-girls school, so there is no boy drama, and even the girls are so nice, there’s nothing to fight about. I haven’t experienced any extreme emotion since I started, and I’m starting go numb to where I don’t feel anything because there is no stimulation. I won’t be writing anything or posting anything because once school starts again I will have no energy nor anything to write about. Sorry


My Second Home

Yes, this is the same place I’ve mentioned before.

I’ve written countless poems, papers, stories about this place. It came to a point where I didn’t want to write or talk about it, because I thought that people were getting sick of me talking about it. I wish I could go back everyday, and when I’m there I never want to leave. I haven’t been there in three and a half years. Time stops there. Like my favorite author from my favorite book said:

“Every moment of your life is lived for the future–you go to high school so you can go to college so you can get a good job so you can get a nice house so you can afford to send your kids to college so they can get a good job so they can get a nice house so they can afford to send their kids to college.”

There… college didn’t seem to matter that much. I can still hear the chants we sang there in my head whenever I need to fell pumped up. Even though I don’t believe in any religion, I feel like there is some sort of divine presence or a spiritual intervention because me, little introverted, shy, gifted, socially anxious 10 year-old kid decided to go to this summer camp for three weeks out of the blue. True, The Parent Trap (1999) had some influence, but even I was shocked by the fact that I only cried for five minutes when my mom was about to leave. I expected a lot more.

I’ve described this place countless times, and I’m afraid to do so now because sometimes I’m too literal and sometimes I’m too metaphorical. I haven’t figured out a balance yet, because there is so much to write down and describe that the biggest note book in the world wouldn’t be able to contain everything I remember. But I’ll try now:

Right where the poll meets the tennis courts, there is a water fountain. It has the water fountain top, but doesn’t have a bowl, so the water just spills right onto the concrete. The metal pipes that connect the fountain to the water are the shiniest silver I’ve ever seen, as if it is foreshadowing how good the water tastes. Anyone who has been to the mountains and drank from the tap, or a water fountain like me, can agree that the water tastes so good. I have never had water that tastes this good. Even though there were several water fountains on this ranch, this one water fountain was by far the best water I have ever tasted. People sprinted to this fountain fro water and drank for so long, that a line formed. Even though all the other water fountains were empty. 

That’s all that I can write for now. I’m too sad to write anything else.

Fulminate Against My Life

I dream of running away from my house. I want to leave this county, this state. Just take all of the money I have, and explore the world. I miss seeing places I’ve never been to and having the freedom to explore. The last time I’ve experienced this is July when I was in Florida with my aunt and cousins and we went to this resort near the top of Florida and my aunt’s friend and her kids. This first place I would go would probably be… East, toward the Sierras. I’ve been to the mountains before, and I love the smells, and the views. People always tell me how lucky I am to live where I live, and how beautiful the hills and views are, but I think they’re boring. Probably because I’ve hiked these trails my whole life, I’ve seen the same views for fifteen years, and the same million-dollar houses, and I want to see something else, I want to see a view where the hills are always green and never yellow. Yellow hills are hideous, they smell like heat, and it burns my nose. The beach is beautiful, but the one’s I’ve been to are the mainstream ones. I want to go to a hidden one, one where very few people go. That sounds like the best day ever. I imagine going with my friends, but the very few friends I do have either wouldn’t want to go, or would be unable to go because they live too far away from me. I thought that I would have more friends here, be happier, but if anything, I think I’m sadder. They’re are only two  people that I can have a decent conversation with and not want to bang my head against the table because of their ignorance. I wish that I was more accepting of other people, but being gifted does have its downsides. Actually, it has a lot of downsides, I can’t think of any upsides, other then the fact that I don’t annoy the upper class men. I look at the middle schoolers that are only 50 yards away and I wish that I was back in middle school, where everything was less complicated, and even though I thought I was sad, I was actually happy (I know it’s confusing, I don’t understand it either). I had a dream last night, that I was with everybody from elementary school, and I was still in eighth grade, and I remember telling myself, that I had to savor every moment that I had with them because our days together were numbered. I woke up, and I felt my heart collapse in on itself, because I haven’t seen them since June. I’ve seen them every now and then, but it’s not the same. I wish that I talked to one of them when I saw him at the market near my house. But I was afraid that i would be teased by my father because my dad has teased me about him and his friend that I liked them, when in fact I never had crush in them in my whole life. So I let him go, and I don’t know the next time I will see him, if I ever see him again. I really hope I see him again.

L’esprit d’escaleier

IMG_2115The Apartment was dark, only one lightbulb above the table was lit, swinging back and forth from the winds that whooshed in from the left-open window. The storm outside was relentless, the carpet becoming soggy, the food pelted with raindrops. The steak, mash potatoes, and beans were drenched. The radio was still playing in the background. The man that lived here knocked over his beer bottle, from rage, rage that his fiancé was gone and never coming back. He made dinner, set the table, showered, and was paid back by a phone call from the love of his life, her voice almost drowned out from the rain, but clear enough to get the meaning of her message, the reason that she wasn’t coming to dinner.

I’ve Found Someone Else. 

He slammed the phone shut and threw against the wall, breaking it into halfs. His anger soon dissipated into sadness. The red couch was a welcoming embrace, an acceptable substitute for his lady’s arms. He didn’t care about the ring that he spent a fortune on that was now being flushed down a toilet at a public gas station. The radio was mostly static, serving as white noise for the now broken-hearted man. His pain was rollin over his body the static serving as the moon that brings it back and forth, back and forth. He couldn’t tell what were tears and what were raindrops. The line between dreaming and reality was thin, the line between conciseness and sleep was thick though, his body not ready to sleep, his heart racing in his chest, but his brain was shutting down, one phrase on repeat like a mantra that monks use when they meditate.  I Found Someone Else. I Found Someone Else. I Found Someone Else. I Found Someone Else. I Found Someone Else. Each syllable made the hole in his chest wider, and deeper, till it felt like he was a black hole, nothing, but gravity, pulling everything into it.

The Lady and Him were stopping at a rest stop. She was in the bedroom when she read the writing on one of the stall walls. Why did he leave me? What did I do Wrong? I love YOU! She stopped reading the writing on the stall wall. He was waiting for her. Taking her to a better place. But she had to write something. She used her fingernail to carve He’ll take me to a better place.

The radio was still on when the man sat up again. It was still raining, but there was grey light coming in from the window, illuminating the damage done by the rain. Even though he was sitting gin the same apartment he has lived in for years, he felt like he was in a strangers house, an unwelcome guest. Orienting himself in a different way. The IKEA furniture was the same furniture, but instead of happy memories engraved into the wood and plastic, memories that brought the searing pain in his chest back. He was starting to go crazy in the Apartment, so he ran out, leaving the door open.

The Park was his destination, whether his feet or brain decided he knew not. He only knew that when he looked up, he was standing on the hill in the middle of the nearby park, the same hill that the man and lady shared their first kiss together. The man could see her next to him. She was wearing a chiffon dress with a pink flowers on it. A beige cardigan covered her exposed shoulder, and she wore a wide-brim- stray hat with a pink ribbon weaved into it.

“I had a really fun time today.”

“Me too.”

“I guess I’ll see you later?”



The man tore himself out of the memory and walked far away from the park to the train station. His card was in the pockets of his jeans. he swiped it through and took the train that was about to leave. He squeezed himself into the car and grabbed the hand rail. The train was crowed, but he found it calming and soaked up the sound of everyone breathing and the tapping of their fingertips on cellphones, and the ratting of the train and his own heartbeat. For a few seconds he was peaceful, but then he saw her sitting across from him, and he remembered the first time she stayed over, the first time that they went grocery shopping together, the-first-time for everything.

The Car was speeding along the interstate, creating as much distance between the Apartment, and the Lady. She was crying, her tears falling down with the Rain. She kept on looking at her left ring finger, where it should be. The man beside her grabbed her hand. She looked up at him and she knew that this was exactly what she wanted, her phone in her other hand ready to make the call, when she was ready. 

He finally got off the train when the sky was dark. It wasn’t raining any more, but it was still damp. The train stop he got off of was in the middle of no where, along the interstate. But he kept on walking, trying ti numb the pain in his chest, trying to forget that she isn’t crazy with worry, or will be waiting for him when he gets home, if he goes home. The bike path next to the interstate was more calming and didn’t hold any memories of her. A rest stop came up on his right. He had to relive himself so he stumbled into the closest bathroom. He soon discovered, that it was the women’s bathroom, but he didn’t care. He was in the stall when he was reading the writing when something caught his eye. It was writing carved into the stall, it didn’t look like it was done heavily, just with a fingernail. He’ll take me to a better place. He knew it could’ve been anyone, but at that moment, it was from her.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Study Abroad.”

Scotland. I don’t care where. The Isles, The Borderlands, The Highlands, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Inverness, anywhere, as longs, as it’s in the country’s boarders. I first became in love with Scotland from a computer game. Nancy Drew #29: The Silent Spy. It took place in Scotland. In this game I learned basic information about Scotland. It sounded like a cool place. SO I started researching about Scotland on my own. And I fell in love. With its history, its landscape, its tartan textile, its cities. And I haven’t even been there. I might not know everything about the country, but I still get chills every time that someone says “Scotland”.



Me everyday (Source: Tumblr)

I don’t know why I had the brilliant idea to create a blog right before soccer season started, but I did, and now I need to take care of it. I’m sorry for not updating, and basically going AWOL, but that’s going to change, sorta. I will post only on weekends, probably 3 or 4 posts. Then during the week, I’ll be gone. I’ll try to comment and like other blogs posts. I’m wanna get better as a certain band screamed, so I’m gonna try. Slowly.

Summer Camp

5985561463_fcfe39bda1_oAnother side affect of being gifted is that I get very attached to people and place very quickly and for a longer amount of time. I went to summer camp for three weeks in July for three years. The last time I was there was three years ago. And yet, I still find myself staring at the ceiling above my bed letting the hole in my chest ache and beg to see my friends again. When I graduated from Middle School, I was the only going to the high school I go to now. I didn’t think about how much I’d miss the people I’ve grown up with. I still miss them now, especially since I only have one real friend at my high school. I’m still connected to everybody both camp, and middle school friends through Instagram, but that doesn’t make the hole in my chest hurt less. If anything it makes it hurt more because, the majority of them don’t follow me back, or like my posts. I’m still on the road of accepting the fact that I’ll always care for someone more than they care for me or miss someone more than they miss me, but I always wish that I could go back to Mountain Meadow, or Miller Creek, because there, I had a place where I belong, and people liked me, and I liked them back.