My self and the gypsy.

A few years back a gypsy convinced me  my eyes are wide windows with no curtains. She force fed me odd tasting sugar cookies and made me wash them down with a royal blue liquid that burned my throat. She told me, 

"Everything is in your eyes. 

Blink often or the world will know your secrets, girl." 

Her hair was black when I met her, her eyes a boring brown and her teeth the worst shade of yellow. By the end of the night though her hair looked more red, her eyes more black, and her teeth that bright white that you can't help but think of death when you see. Still, her words scared me more than her appearance. I couldn't allow the world such an easy access to my secrets. I wouldn't. I devoted all of my time to evading any sort of eye contact; sunglasses, hiding behind my hair, looking elsewhere and soon enough it became second nature to me. Eventually I stopped looking myself in the eye- afraid to know my own secrets- and mirrors reflected nothing more than a faceless body. Ultimately, I lost my self in a looking glass and realized how terrified I was to find my self again. For so long I was just a body, existing and functioning in the most basic and simple ways possible, barely getting by: never letting my mind wander to where my self might be. Then it happened.

It was a rainy day- the kind where there's water everywhere- and I could feel the lifeless reflection of what was left of me following me around everywhere; in windows, in puddles, on the sides of cars. Everywhere I turned: me, me, me, me, me. I couldn't ignore it for much longer so I walked and walked and walked as aimlessly as possible, vacantly staring into the palms of my own hands. I was so used to walking with my head down I thought nothing of it this particular day. It was normal. Comfortable. Safe. But the harder it rained the faster I walked and the faster I walked the more mindless and unaware I became. Eventually I walked right into someone else and looked up just in time to meet their surprisingly comforting gaze. What I saw in their eyes was the self I was sure I had lost; pure, lost, and hurt but beautiful all the same. For once in my life I found myself unable to blink. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything but stare and wonder why that gypsy had such an everlasting effect on me. In that instance I cursed her existence and wished nothing but death and unhappiness on her. She ruined me- destroyed the perfectly imperfect person I was becoming- and she did it well. 

Shaking off the rain and the suppressing the hate that boiled in every pore of my body, I finally made myself blink. Almost instantly I lost my reflection in their eyes and I was able to appreciate the person who had unintentionally ignited one of the most liberating moments of my life. I was still unable to speak though. In fact, all I could do was blink over and over and over. Before I realized they were laughing, a perfect white radiated from their mouth and I heard a sound that I now recognize as laughter. As they slowly blinked and returned their gaze to mine their laughter stopped and they spoke ten simple words, 

"You really shouldn't blink so much, you have gorgeous eyes." 

And with that they walked away, leaving me to stare openly into the rain., Into the windows. Into the future.

"It's strange that words are so inadequate. 

Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, 

so the lover must struggle for words."

-T.S. Elliot

I'm much more the asthmatic struggling for breath than I am the lover struggling for words; I have the words, just not enough breath to so much as whisper them. I'm asphyxiated for much of the day, but I get along just fine- I never was one for breathing much anyway. Aside from that, who needs a voice these days? We let our fingers do the talking; our cameras do the seeing; our computers and calculators do the thinking. I get by just fine doing nothing they tell me I need to do.

But enough of that nonsense. Let's talk October.]

If every month were like October, the world would smell and taste and feel so much nicer. BUt I'm glad every month is not like October; I like that there are only 31 days out of the year that the Universe can sabotage for me. The rest of the days don't always matter much to me.

I want to go pretend I can pick up pumpkins.

I want to drink Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

I want to shiver in a sweater and watch the sunset and bask in the orange glow that is October air.

Nothing's gonna change my world...

my knees are bent.

my eyes are closed.

patience spent,

i'm on my toes.

on the edge,

i hold my breath.

off the ledge,

i welcome death.

my mind is hushed,

my body silent.

i feel so rushed!

i feel so violent!

relieved of any sense of worth,

i smile and sigh as i hit the Earth.

I jumped jumped jumped and couldn't keep the world from following after.

** http://caballito-de-mar.blogspot.com/

^^my inspiration^^

INSTRUCTIONS: 

1. PRESS PLAY

2. READ THE POEM WITH THE SONG PLAYING. 

3. ENJOY.

Day after day,
at the top of a hill,
She stands next to a grinning man, keeping perfectly still.
She wants nothing more than to know him,
She can see he’s more than a fool,
but she’ll never get an answer

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

Maybe some day,
she’ll say something aloud,
And the one hundred thousand voices in her head will be proud.
But it’s likely she’ll never tell him,
there’s not a sound she feels she can make,
And he never seems to notice

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

And she’s never spoken to him,
But it’s all she really wants to do.
She’s bound to explode with feelings,

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

But everyone can see them,
they say he’s turned the girl into a fool,
and they don’t seem to like him

‘Cause the fool on the hill,
with her hair a reddish brown,
And the doubt in her head,
keeps her eyes on the ground.

I'm embarrassed, for more than just the obvious reasons. Sometimes I wonder if people read between the lines I write. I'm going to stop typing now. 

"i am the wanderer's wandering daughter

take all my pain and i mix it with water"

Italics imply a character is thinking. What is being said is not being said aloud. No one can here what said character is thinking to themselves; no one but you, the reader.

I have a story to finish. I mean, real incentive this time. Not just people actively reading what I'm writing. My grade depends on this. For some reason though, I'm still not motivated to write. It takes a lot to get into this guy's head. He's an alcoholic. He's real fucked up in the head. Totally doesn't care about anything. Doesn't have a job. Doesn't have to pay rent. Doesn't even have to worry about filling a kitchen with food. All that matters to him is his alcohol and writing down whatever the hell he feels like. Hot damn, he's got the life. Anyway, my point here was that I have to finish a story. I actually have to. But I haven't. I don't know that I want to. It has a lot to do with neither of my professors reading what I've given them so far. I feel like they think I only think I can write, but I'm starting to realize other people really think that do.

Anyway, I'm curious.

You see, people tell me they read this (even enjoy it sometimes) but the level of feedback I get (which is almost zero) suggests otherwise. I want a conversation with people. If I say something you like, or don't like, or if you just have anything to say SAY IT.

There's a place for comments, and they're always very appreciated. I would love to know what you think, what you like, what you don't like, all that jazz. So please, feel free.

And now I feel like I'm begging.

The clock says it's 2:16 in the morning.

I know I should sleep but I had some real vicious nightmares last night. It makes me anxious to think of turning out the lights.

i have one of those headaches where everything is bright and loud and i can't remember what i did last night.

beneath the aching cloud hovering right over my eyes, i think i'm thinking about my life and exactly what it is at this exact moment in time. i feel incapable again, and with that feeling comes the other feelings. the ones i don't necessarily talk about. my mom said she'll talk to her doctor for me. i'm trying not to be hopeful: she likes to deceive. aside from that, i have my failing academic career. i have not been to class in over a week and as much as i want to go tomorrow, i'm afraid of not being able to. stress stress stress in a five minute recipe; just pop it in the microwave and watch it spin.

and then there's the rest of me. that 90% of Iceberg Stephanie that never sees the light of day. its itching for an unsinkable boat to come sailing by so its not the only thing hiding in the sea. the 10% of me that the sun does touch is really praying that boat never comes.

anyway, i'm positive none of that makes sense and i would re-read it but this headache is just not conducive to re-reading.

i hope nothing in there is too obvious. or too embarrassing. or too inappropriate.

i can honestly say i don't remember a word of what i just wrote.