A Bottle of Letter and Sounds

Bottle up your words. Let me share them. I have none left, and yet I have too many. Maybe I could borrow yours for a little while, just until I can find my own again. My lips form shapes and sounds, yet nothing comes clearly. Nothing comes to my mind.

All I can say is "I'm sorry" and "Give me food" and "Don't you dare do this again, I've had enough." 

Yet that's never enough. So I'll throw those into the garbage disposal, and I'll listen to those words being crunched down into the depths of black.

If I could, I'd take those words you lent me in a bottle, and I'd open it slowly, just until the "yes" and the "no" and the "maybe" would slip out of the small opening. Then I'd screw the lid back on, so nothing else could escape. I'd live with those three words on the tip of my tongue, I'd swallow them up and never say anything else. 

Those are the only words you really need, right?

Just tell me I'm right and I'll never bother you again.

Forever Yours,

Rachel

But is there anyone left?

When the spaces become to big, when the cracks won't stop breaking, when the wind whips out of nowhere and knocks down the big trees, I will still be here.

When the leaves fall, and the grass turns brown, the whole world seems to be a dull color between gray and yellow, I will still be here.

When the words you said were different than what you did, when the last ornament breaks and you were the cause, I will still be here.

When the sushi goes bad, and the prices on fruit go up, all you have left is a few pennies and your thoughts, I will still be here.

When the typewriter runs out of ink and you can't buy it any longer, your paper gets jammed, and you let it go in the wind, I will still be here.

When the ground shakes as if there's a giant stomping around and you feel like no one will ever notice, I will still be here.

When your words get stuck in your throat and you can't make your lips speak, you feel like no one cares, I will still be here.

When you finally realize who's left and who actually cares, I will still be here.

Forever Yours, 

Rachel

Nothing consumes me, yet it is Everything. It is Time.

Time takes away everything we love, and tries to give us something better. Sometimes it follows through, and we smile at Time, and thank her. We thank her for the wonderful memories she gave us moments to make. We sing praises to the moments and the seconds that consume us when that friend comes back, when he says what you've always wanted to hear. Time gave him enough to say it. To fill the moment with everything tangible and yet unreachable. You thank time because she gave you space to love and appreciate every minute of the moment you're granted to be with whomever you want. To make a memory.

And yet, sometimes Time is cruel to us, and takes away the perfect moment that we missed by milliseconds. It was hardly enough of Time to be called a moment, yet it was there, and Time, as cruel as she can be, snatches it away before we even saw it staring us in the face. So we lay in bed, when the house is silent and black, and we let a tear or two fall, let them disappear into Time, let her take them away from us and think about all the things we could have said, should have said, would have said, if Time had only let us. 

But she didn't. Time didn't care that we almost said, "Love me forever." or "I know you are thinking what I'm thinking, so kiss me already." or "Why didn't you stay? Why did you leave? Why did you let Time get the best of you?" But all those words go unsaid and Time feels victorious in herself.

And we are stuck in the depths of Memory & his pal, Wondering. Memory & Wondering keep us up at night, wasting even more Time, thinking and hoping and wishing and wanting. Eventually it evolves into writing, and listening to Adele wishing you had the Time to say all you want to say. 

And yet. There's never enough Time. Never enough.

Forever Yours,

Rachel

My life at the moment...

Because I don't know what to say to you, and it kills me.

Forever Yours,

Rachel

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.

Because I Might Be a Little Bit Insane...

I'm participating in NaNoWriMo. 

I'm nuts.

Wish me luck.

Meow.

Fake-Life vs. Real-Life

In fake-life,  I own a  type-writer in a lovely shade of teal. Also, I write letters using it. Everyday.

In real-life, I write letters on a computer. Or I hand write them. I don't have a teal typewriter or know if they actually can come in that color.

In fake-life, I own every shade of tights possible. 

In real-life, my favorite black tights have a hole in them. It's problematic.

In fake-life, I have a cat named Reginald, who curls up next to my when I read.

In real-life,  I have a dog named Joey who doesn't actually like me all that much. It's fine.

In fake-life, I have a boyfriend who wears oxfords & button down shirts. He sends me love letters by post with cute stamps & they're handwritten. Also, he likes surprising me, & he writes poetry. Sometimes he kisses my nose & tells me I'm cute when I smirk.

In real-life, I'm 18 and have never been kissed.

Today I Feel Nostalgic...

I'm 17 for a moment, then it all disappeared. Poof! Gone. 

Now I'm 18, for real.

A birthday cake with 18 candles, one that kept re-lighting itself, and dripping blue wax onto the perfectly ivory frosting. A few envelopes with wishes and curly signatures. Songs of joy and well-wishing, songs of smelling like a princess because my little brothers think they are the funniest people alive. Sugar rushes and falling to the ground, laughing at the bottom of the stairs just because we can. Sitting on the floor for an hour just thinking, because it's my birthday and I wanted too. Imagining life as it is, and as it will be.

And to think I'm officially 18 and I've never been kissed.

Dear Whomever You Might Be,

Sometimes I write letters to people I know.

Only I never send them, on account of they will probably get mad, or cry, or become anxious and stop talking to me. Or they will just leave me, and that's the worst choice of them all.

I guess writing those letters gets things off my mind, keeps me sane, if you will.

Because no one will ever read them, no one will know what they say, no one will read the much too long sentences and see the spelling errors that I can't fix because I wrote in pen. And no one will leave me because I wrote him/her a letter.

And if anyone sees them? Well, they won't because I keep that notebook hidden and no one will ever think of where to find it. And if by chance someone did find it, I don't write the names of whomever I'm writing to. So it wouldn't really matter anyway, I guess. 

I don't even know why I'm posting this. 

My life is a mess.

Forever Yours,

Rachel

I Am Alive.

And I've been playing back memories

from long ago 

before I knew what would come of 

this. 

I'm singing songs 

in my head that remind me of 

him 

and signs on my door that are 

blue and green 

make sense only 

to me.

The words you said 

run through 

my mind and I can't think 

at all.

Get out of my head, 

your hugs make me swoon, 

and I'm not sure where I'm going with my 

words. 

My thoughts are a 

mess, 

my head is bursting,

the door is shut tight, 

and my sentences are 

long.

Remembering is hard, 

it makes tears fill 

my eyes, 

and my heart feels like it should 

burst.

Yet your face 
appears in my 
mind, 
and I am lost in your 
eyes, 
memories eating me 
alive.

I know I am alive.

A Thought or Two...

My head is full of crazy ideas, thoughts and ramblings that even I can hardly comprehend. My mind is running at a million miles a minute, and it never slows down. Thoughts about people, death, hope, the future, love. Everything. Sometimes I just want to lie down, stare at my ceiling, and forget it all, if only for a moment. All the thoughts knocking at my door, screaming through the wood, picking the lock. And I think to myself, where do they come from? Why are they here? Because I need to know, I suppose. I need to ask questions, I need to get answers. Yet most of them stay locked up in my head, fighting their way out, until I scribble them down on a piece of scrap paper, or type them out on word document, my fingers moving frustratingly slower than my steady stream of thought. Except, as I write them down, more creep into my head, seeping in between the cracks, tapping on the window panes, seeking a way in. It's a tedious process, until they make their way through my head, and settle on the floor, waiting patiently amongst the others, just waiting to be spewed out onto paper, so another can take its place amongst the chaos.

Because then I realized...

It doesn't even matter what other people think.

10 Years Ago...

 

{Every year, since the towers fell, the New York skyline has been lit up with 88 lights, in remembrance of those who died.}

I was 7. My mom was braiding my hair, my dad was downstairs eating breakfast, watching the news like any normal morning. 

Out of no where, he shouted for my mother to come downstairs, immediately. It couldn't wait. 

Abandoning the braid, she ran down the staircase, as my dad never sounded this urgent. Following her down, my brush in hand, I saw the TV, the smoke rising to the sky, the panic on my parents faces. Then my mom started to cry, my dad stared intently at the screen, never moving his eyes. 

I was late to school that day. The first time I had ever been late. And an hour late at that. I was confused, why was this so important I had to be late for school? What was I going to tell my teacher? I walked into my classroom, the lights were off, my teacher was on the phone crying, and the 6 other kids in my classroom were watching Reading Rainbow.

That's all we did that day.

I remember my teacher crying into the phone, other teachers coming in, a few kids from another class joining ours.

I think that's when I realized the world wasn't just my small little town. The world was much bigger than what I could see.

Of course, I imagined the people around the world, but that's all it was. Imagination.

Now it seemed so real.

Too real.

Never Forget.