The Dickens

You think that you are so strong.

The past has been cast aside.

But then there is that searing, red pain.

It stabs like the cold steel of a tested blade.

The silver cuts deep, but instead of blood gushing,

Like the cheap effects of a bad horror film,

All insecurities are released.

They fly around the festooned mind

Little demons, howling ghosts.

Dickens had the right idea:

Past, Present, and Future.

Each takes a turn at haunting.

Memories of the Then, the Now, and the Yet to Come

Cannot be banished.

Siberia would be suitable, though,

Cold enough to numb even the coal-lit fires

Of the cloisters where the specters dwell.

Yet…they only exist where you allow them.

Have you ever been haunted? I’m not talking about just any haunting. I’m talking about memories. For me, those are the biggest ghosts and goblins following me on this evening of October 31^st. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about many of the people who have walked in and out of my life, especially in the past five or six years. Many have come into my life and have remained, yet there are others who came in, made a huge impact, and then left as quickly as they came. Those are the ones I am thinking of tonight.

My life bears witness to these people. As I look around my room, I see pictures of the ones who once stood beside me and posed in front of the camera. For some reason, it’s hard to believe that we ever stood next to each other. She feels so far away now. A kiss on the hand and tears in her eyes is the last memory I have of her.

There is a poster on my door that is signed by a very dear friend and it says, “I love you.” He is completely out of my life now, moved on to a different city, yet, not a day goes by when I don’t walk through that door, see his words, and think of him. Am I the only person who still remembers?

Sometimes when I am out in public, perfect strangers walk by, and I have the complete conviction that I see the face of someone I used to know. Ghosts. That’s all they are.

Even yet, sometimes I reach into an old purse or wallet, and I pull out a ticket stub from a movie long past and I smile a little as I remember. Some of the movies were dreadful, but a part of me would sit through it again if that person was there with me once more.

The photographs that I have from the various plays I was a part of are the hardest to bear. They aren’t just about a cast of people putting on a show. They are about relationships made, friendships forged, loves once cherished, now lost.

I guess that’s the theme tonight: loss. Because, isn’t that what a ghost is: a lost soul? I wonder how long I will carry them around with me. Perhaps forever, or perhaps until they are replaced by new ghosts. I don’t know. Regardless, tonight, I pay them a little bit of homage. If you are one of my ghosts tonight, will you come back to the world of the living? If you aren’t…will you become one?

Birth of a Story

Some stories just need to be told. They simmer and fester inside the writer’s brain until they begin coming out in of every pour in the skin, every medium of the psyche. Soon, even dreams are filled with images of the story. The daytime hours can accomplish nothing, because the story is there. The story haunts the very recesses of the writer’s mind, tugging and pulling, asking, no, begging to be let out.

When the story first began to take form, it was merely an infant, a fetus in the writer’s brain. Any attempt to give birth to the story at this state would have been a blatant abortion or premature birth. No good can come of this kind of delivery.

But then, one day, before the writer ever even notices it, the story has grown so much that it must soon immerge. It won’t wait any longer. Despite all of the pressing activities and events of life, the story will not wait. A story really is a very selfish thing. It must have its way, and have its way it will. Who is to stop it or stand in its way?

Not me.

Birth of a Story

Some stories just need to be told. They simmer and fester inside the writer’s brain until they begin coming out in of every pour in the skin, every medium of the psyche. Soon, even dreams are filled with images of the story. The daytime hours can accomplish nothing, because the story is there. The story haunts the very recesses of the writer’s mind, tugging and pulling, asking, no, begging to be let out.

When the story first began to take form, it was merely an infant, a fetus in the writer’s brain. Any attempt to give birth to the story at this state would have been a blatant abortion or premature birth. No good can come of this kind of delivery.

But then, one day, before the writer ever even notices it, the story has grown so much that it must soon immerge. It won’t wait any longer. Despite all of the pressing activities and events of life, the story will not wait. A story really is a very selfish thing. It must have its way, and have its way it will. Who is to stop it or stand in its way?

Not me.

Red Sky at Night

A storm settles over Virginia Beach as the sky turns red in the evening. The sky is often red here at night. I cannot tell if it is from the ever-approaching storms that seem to hover over this nautical city, or if it is simply because the lights of the metropolis are so bright. I’ve never seen the stars here. I don’t think they exist here. Clouds. That is all I see in the sky at night: clouds that seem to reflect the redness.

I did something new tonight. I went to a movie by myself. I’ve never done that before. I’ve either reached a new level of pathetic or I’m getting braver. Brave. That was the name of the movie I went to see. It wasn’t exactly what I had expected. Too many bears. Even so, I cried in the theatre. It made me miss my mom. Those darn Pixar movies generally have a way of getting to me.

When I came out of the movie, the wind blew my hair around. I felt like the red-headed girl in the movie with the crazy curls. That was when I noticed the red sky. Leaves blew across the parking lot and the road. I’m pretty sure at one point I saw a tumbleweed cross my path. The storm is coming. It storms so much here.

I’m trying to find a point to this post. I don’t think there is one. Does there always have to be a point, a thesis? Does everything need to be wrapped up neatly in a nice big pink bow like the ones on top of the shiny new Hondas in car commercials? I think not. So for tonight I leave you with storms, red skies, and auburn haired girls who accidentally turn their mothers into bears. Oops! Did I just give away the ending? Sorry. I’ll go now…

The Good Kind of Lost

I don’t know what I’m searching for in life. Sometimes I feel as if I’m walking in the right direction, yet other times, I feel so far. I’ve got a great life, don’t get me wrong. I recently moved into my own place. I actually pay rent and have my own room now! So, things are good. I’m exploring a new city and get lost all the time. Even so, it’s never a scary sort of lost. It’s always a “hey! I now I know where the Target is!” kind of lost. It’s the good kind of lost.

I guess that my life is sort of in the same kind of mode right now. I’m lost, but it’s a good kind of lost- a self-discovery kind of lost. I don’t really know who I am at the moment. Some days I identify with the old, innocent self, yet those times are getting more few and far between. I don’t think that I am that girl anymore. Part of me wants to be. I mean, I feel like I should be that good little girl again who does what is right, what she is told to do. She always tried to do the right thing, and she didn’t mess around in dangerous areas. But, I know that that girl is gone, and will never come back. It’s okay. I sort of mourn her loss, but there are things about the new girl that I like too. This girl has a tougher shell. She knows how to keep her heart unattached so that she won’t be hurt when the boy stops calling. She knows that when it comes to relationships, often less is more. She knows that she can’t hang on to people, but can only be thankful for the times that they are in her life. She’s even learning how to be on her own, stand on her own two feet. If it wasn’t for her, I would have felt so lonely during my first days in the new house.

Well that’s not entirely true. A lot of it was due to the fact that I have amazing friends and family who kept me company. My mom, great grandmother, and best friend all sent me letters in the mail. One of my girlfriends even came to visit me during my first weekend! In addition, the cast of my last show has been amazing. We’ve had Skype dates, the aforementioned visit, and plenty of text messages. As strange as it seemed to me, an old friend, who I never thought I’d be close to again, messaged me every day to see how I was doing and to keep me company. He really was the one person to keep up with me each and every day. It’s meant more to me than I think he knows. I realized that I never really knew him before. This is how I know that God is good. He does so much for someone such as me, who is the least worthy of all of His children. He provides company for me when I am in a strange place, and he allowed me to reunite with someone who has always lived in a special place in my heart. Even now as I write this, feeling a little lonely, a friend sends a poem that brings warmth to my heart. Nice timing, God. As always.

 

Dreaming While Awake

Have you ever felt as if you are living in some sort of restless dream? It’s not quite a nightmare, but it’s not really a good dream either. I awaken every morning to a different, sad country song playing in my head, but I’m never really awake. The couch that is now my bed is hard and doesn’t allow for much real slumber. I drift in and out between nightmares and moments where my brain tortures me with embarrassing memories that I’d rather forget.

Even the daytime is strange and surreal. I step from my bedroom, which really isn’t mine anymore, but my sister’s, and walk into the empty house, much bigger than I remember it being. I look in each room, hoping that maybe someone is here today. No. It’s empty, just as it was yesterday. Even the refrigerator holds no note for me. The phone rings, and I rush to answer it, but it is only a recorded message, asking me if I want to win a free…click. I hang up the phone. Even I haven’t sunk low enough to need the voice of a recording.

Or maybe I do. I like to keep the TV on, or listen to music, because it kills the silence. The silence is broken only by the sound of the washing machine and dryer. There is another load of whites to be done after this one.

I’m leaving in a week, or rather, a week and a day. Friends are busy saying goodbye, yet, I’ve never felt so alone. I tell myself every day that it is good to be alone, because when I leave, I will be alone all of the time, especially at first.

You ask, why are you leaving, then, if you are so miserable? I ask that question too. Well, it had to happen sometime, right? I mean, I could have stayed nestled in my little comfort zone for a few years longer, but I’m realized lately that I’m outgrowing my pouch. I need to find a new place that can hold me, even when that means leaving the only safety I’ve ever known. It’s a gamble really. I’m trading my security (and possibly happiness), at a shot at doing bigger things, finding who I really am, finishing my education, and being happier in a new and greater situation. Of course, those are all the things I will win if the gamble goes my way. I’m not going to ponder the other side of that bet.

I’ve alienated one of the closest people in my world so that I can protect the both of us from the separation. This is a dry run. He sulks, I sit home and endure the loneliness. I’ve learned that I’ll never be happy with things as they are between us. There are still so many things I need to do with my life before I’m ready to share my life with just one person. Maybe he doesn’t get that. I know he doesn’t get that. But that’s alright. I’m protecting him now, and maybe he’ll thank me someday for the cushion I’ve given him.

At the same time, all is not dark. I rediscovered a dream that I had lost. The dream came in the form of a childhood character that I had created on paper and who lived in my mind and heart. Somehow, he escaped from the paper and I met him in life. Of course, my feet are still on the ground enough to know that it can’t be as magical as it seems, but…there are moments… There are moments like the one where I discovered a sketch that I had drawn as a child, and was startled because the boy in life and the boy from my stories have the same face, that I gave the boy the same face, name, and traits as a boy I would meet seven years later.

But these things cannot be real. They are merely dreams, dreams that just happen to take place while I am awake, dreams that I can share with those around me. This is why I fear I must be dreaming while awake. My whole life right now is one long, never-ending vision. I want to wake up, yet at the same time, if I do, I lose the magic of the dream, and return to the same reality that I was in before. The bottom line is that I’ve been bored for so long now. I feel that if I can just reach out beyond this living dream, that I will be able to break through into a part of life that I’ve never touched before. I’m holding out for something greater, but first, I must endure the dream.

Tennyson and I

This week I read what is perhaps the most beautiful, most sorrowful, and most despairing poem that I think was ever written. It was In Memoriam A. H. H. by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. He wrote the poem after the death of his best friend, Arthur. It took him sixteen years to write the entire work. It's amazing to think that any person would mourn so thoroughly for a friend for so long. It is clear that even to the last words of the poem, written so many years after Arthur's death, that Tennyson still felt the loss of his friend very deeply. He wrote how he would approach Arthur's old house, and would wait outside the door, just wishing that Arthur would open it and grasp his hand in a friendly handshake, just as he had in the past. He wrote:

“Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more.”

It's enough to make any heart break. Perhaps we all know what it means to lose someone so close to us, whether it be in death, or in separation. Tennyson longed for the touch of a hand that he knew he would never more feel. In the same way, I long for the embrace of arms that once encircled me with warmth and love. I fear I will never again feel that way. Sometimes at night, I lay in bed and wonder. I wonder if he, wherever he may be at the moment, feels the same way I do. Our separation was not one either of us wished, but rather something that had to be done at the time. I pray it will not be forever, but I hope he feels the same way. So much insecurity fills my mind, yet so much love still fills my heart. Voices around me tell me, “It will get better, I promise,” “You are young, you can move on,” yet, none of them are reassuring at the moment. Someday in the future, I'm sure I will look back on this moment and smile, thinking of how everything worked out in the end. Things do work out in the end, don't they? This is what we've been taught all along. Cinderella marries the prince, Lassie always comes home, Lucy and Ricky make up, even Cory and Topanga get back together in the end of season 5. Yet, how can I, who is stuck in this slow-moving wheel of time, push the hands of the clock forward and get through this day to day misery? I open my eyes in the morning, and my heart cries out with pain, because it remembers that it is alone, and uncared for. I sit up, and get out of bed. I go through the day as if nothing is wrong, but sighs and small cries of pain reveal how I really feel inside. Does he still love me? Does he still want to win me back? All I can say is that I hope so. All I have is hope...and love. Well, it's a start at least, right?