Those words will haunt me forever...

Because my heart is heavy, you make me want to scream. That girl over there, she shouldn't be here.

She shouldn't be here.

She shouldn't be here.

She shouldn't be here.

I can't speak anymore. My words get stuck in my throat and they scrape my mouth when I try to speak. My eyes sting and burn with unspoken thoughts, trying to escape in every way possible. I want to scream at you, yell at you, make my voice heard, and kick her out into the dark night.

But instead I sit and stare at you in shock, not speaking, trying to process what you just said to my face. Taking the insults and the demands without question. Then I leave, and I don't care. I don't care what you have to say anymore. I can't care. Even if it hurt me more than I care to admit. I can't care anymore. Because obviously you don't. 

And it makes me sick.

Forever Yours,

Rachel

I have a yearning in my heart

We are young. We are careless and carefree and screaming for joy just because we can. We beg for things, dumb things, good things, not so wonderful things, because we don't know any better. We are teenagers. 

Then comes the day we have to grow up. And all those things don't matter anymore. Not the new jeans with the fancy pockets, not the sweater that we spent hours and hours working for, now we beg to be taken somewhere new, where no one knows our names, where we don't have to pretend to be someone we're not and hide our thoughts because they can't possibly be right. Where we can feel the feeling of freedom that has been deprived from us by the society we live in.A place fit for wandering, a secret place no one knows you will reside in. Where we can wander and get lost among a crowd, without a way out, to somehow feel as though we belong. Even if it's just in a small, seemingly insignificant way. Maybe it's the way we will write our letter q's, on a scrap of paper that fell from the pocket of an old cardigan, littering the ground where someone will pick it up on impulse. Maybe it's a word we say in passing, or a gesture that speaks for us. Maybe it's just being there that will affect someone, some way. Or maybe not. 

Maybe we will be stuck in the same place our whole lives, because we are too scared to defy the way things are, the way things should be. If we left, it would be defying everything we'd ever been taught, from the area to the society. 

And yet.

In my heart I yearn for something more, something that this place can't possibly provide me. Something, somewhere new. Where no one knows my name and I am just another face in the endless crowd surrounding me. I want to make something of my life, and I know it won't be here. 



Forever Yours,
Rachel

With hearts to feel & messes to create

I lay here and wonder why I am the person I am.

I sit here and feel all of the feelings that are swelling in my chest, aching to be free, to become words. But I can't possibly put them all into words. If I did, I 'd have myself a novel.

And a Sequel.

And probably a Prequel. 

So I let them sit in my chest, giving me heavy organs and cold feet. And yet. I can't bear to part with them, not after they seem to have shaped me into myself. If feelings didn't exist, life would be much easier to deal with. And yet. Nobody would be the way they are today, now. Nobody would really exist. We would all just be sitting lumps with bones & hearts & brains that only half work, because we couldn't feel. Life would be a bore. But. With feelings and emotions and all the baggage they come with, we are shaped into human beings. Into individuals that desire different things like cats and paint and words. And that's what makes you, you.




Forever Yours,
Rachel

STRESS. ANXIETY. HOPELESSNESS.

NEVER GONNA FINISH. 

HATE. HATE. HATE.

ANGST. ANGST. ANGST.

Can we please just skip tomorrow and head straight for the weekend?

Forever Yours, 

Rachel

P.S. Sorry for the awful teenage angst that plagues this post. Sometimes that happens.

Lame posts.

Here's an explanation.

Anything I write is for Nanowrimo and I can't seem to come up with anything good and worthwhile for this blog until I am done writing 50K words for that.

So for lack of a good post...here's an excerpt from my novel.

EXCERPT 1: 

I sit in the dark, cold, damp, musty, room. Probably a basement or a cellar. There are no windows, only this candle of 3 that I am allowed. My eyes are used to the dark, and if I look at the candle flame for more than 5 seconds, I swear I'll become blind. I've been here for a week now. I don't know what day it is, or if it even is day. Maybe it's night and I have become nocturnal. I haven't a clue. All I know is that I keep quiet, and I sleep a lot. Except I can't sleep anymore, the dreams are only nightmares and horror stories being written in my messed up head. I don't believe there is any chance of survival. So I write. I write in my notebook they left in my bag. I write because I don't know what to do. I write because I don't know who I am. I write because I don't know where I am.

EXCERPT 2:

I'm freezing. I pull my knees to my chest and shiver. Footsteps sound above me. I haven't seen another soul in a long, long time. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know anything anymore. What if I'm going insane?

Ben's voice echoes in my head. I hate it.

I want to go home. I don't even know where home is.

I have no words.

I can't think.

I can't sleep.

I can't dream.

Not really.

Sure, thoughts run through my head.

                      They are pointless.

Yes, I close my eyes & essentially sleep.

                       I wake exhasted.

Of course, I dream of things.

                       They are full of people. Sometimes I love                        them so much I hate myself for it.