Almost every time I see my sister she says the same thing.

“You really should start journaling.”

And to this very day, I have resisted. I have chosen to not follow my sister’s advice, something I usually regret later on. Instead, I have developed ways to kind of journal. My newest favorite being a quote book.

I thought of making it when the storage filled up on my phone due to the massive collections of screenshots of quotes I’ve found on Instagram. So, naturally, I used a notebook my sister got for me. 

Since then I’ve been writing down quotes on what seems to be a daily basis. However I feel, I’ll pick a quote matching it. If a quote resonates with me, I’ll write it down.

The most special thing is I can write some of my own poetry or incorporate my ideas into other poems. Each page has a different layout, design, and meaning.

So, in a way, my sister’s dream has come true. I write almost everyday, but not exactly the way she likes it.

 

 

Image credit: apromtoremember

Bethany jumped out of her car, tripping on her prom dress, and ran along the road right next to the riverbed towards the fallen deer. The deer didn’t make it. Bethany fell to her knees, and started to cry. Her wailing disabled her from hearing the foot steps behind her. But, she did feel the baseball bat against her skull.

The assailant happened to be a drunk, peace-loving hippie who thought she killed the deer, and wanted to stop her. When the hippie realized Bethany was trying to save the deer, he panicked and threw Bethany and the deer into the empty, rocky riverbed next to the road to cover up his mistake.

While Bethany was unconscious lying in the empty river bed, Ben was waiting for Bethany at the prom site. He assumed he stood her up, even though they weren’t going together.

Bethany woke up hours later, confused. Her car was gone. She called Ben, as she knew he would always answer. He didn’t this time. And they never talked again.

It used to be white.

The yard was a little greener, and my dog was usually tied up to my tree.

My backyard was concrete and it would burn my feet in the summer time.

My living room had this ghastly green carpet that crept up the stairs and into the hallway.

There were pictures hanging up of my sister and I leading up to the second floor.

My room had light blue walls and white furniture with rose decals.

I used to sit on my knees when I ate dinner with my mom because the dinner table was too high up.

I remember watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night on the same black leather couch.

 

Now my house is brown.

The front yard is full of dirt and my tree is dying.

My backyard no longer has hot concrete, but cool stone.

My living room has dark wood tile and my stairs have no carpet.

The pictures have been taken down and the white walls of my house are too white.

My room is the same, except all my stuffed animals and toys have been crammed into a box that now resides in my garage.

I can reach for the salt and pepper on my dinner table without having to stand on my chair.

My black leather couch is gone.

 

And so is the house I spent my childhood in.

The frame is still there, the same white walls and grey tile.

All the pictures that graced the walls are in the same crowded garage.

But now I’m too big to hid behind the black leather couch when a movie gets scary.

I’m too old to play with my old toys.

My house is still there but it is no longer my home.

 

I love words. They are my sanctuary. I love writing stories with them and talking to people with them. Except I hate the words that carry bullets. The ones that once they leave the mouth, they leave a gaping wound. The one’s that leave nasty scars.

Depressed. Three times a week, I sit in an either too hot or too cold classroom. Mostly in the afternoon. This class is my English class and right now we’re reading Romeo and Juliet, a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers who take their lives. Except it’s not tragic, it’s pitiful. I personally feel bad for the hate the Montagues and Capulets have for each other. That book is just sad and to top it off, every class the word depression gets thrown around. That word pierces through my heart, every time it escapes the mouth of one of my oblivious classmates. Romeo and Juliet aren’t depressed, they’re in love. Depression is lying awake at three in the morning because you gave up telling yourself to go to sleep an hour ago. Depression is going to a movie or a concert and regretting getting out of bed. Depression is emotionally, and sometimes physically, demanding to the point where it ensnares you. Depression is not being able to cry because you just did three minutes ago. Depression is not to be uttered left and right.

Retarded. I sometimes sit in the library and my mind strays from the story in my hands and to the conversations behind me. I guarantee that nine out of ten times I hear someone say “You’re being so retarded right now!” However, that isn’t the case. The boy being called retarded is an able-bodied and able-minded person who maybe got a C on their last test because they fell asleep while studying the night before. That person didn’t fall asleep after crying for three straight hours because they got bullied at school again. That person doesn’t feel incapable of normality. That person isn’t looked at or treated differently than others. That person can wake up and walk through their day without a thought of hesitation. Being retarded isn’t a punchline.

Panic attack. “Oh my gosh, don’t scare me like that! I almost had a panic attack!” Panic attacks aren’t a synonym for being scared. Panic attacks are lack of air in your lungs. Panic attacks are your body not being able to stop shaking. Panic attacks are not being able to shake away the stress. Panic attacks are about the test that you don’t have the will to fail, because the next time you do, you won’t be able to fix. Panic attacks are arriving at the gates of school and telling your mom to turn back and drive home as fast as possible. Panic attacks are like a demon sucking every last bit of peacefulness out of you and flushing it down the drain. Panic attacks are serious.

Words have meaning. The reason we’re trained to keep defining words is because we need to know how to use them. You
wouldn’t say someone’s eyes were ocean blue if they were actually brown. You wouldn’t say you’re happy when you’re sad. Some words take a while to master, but sometimes it needs to be mastered faster. So the next time you are at a loss for an appropriate word, pull out a dictionary instead of pulling the trigger.

It grabs around the bottom of my ribs.

Like a tightening rope, not choking but not comfortable. Just tight.

It begs the question, what are you doing?

It just kind of hits randomly, this feeling of tightness. I could be watching a movie or eating, and bam the tightness is back.

This is a problem that plagues the younger and younger. The life changing decisions are getting more and more micromanaged.

Hell there have been books about the most effective season to put your child into sports teams.

What pre-k should your kid go to? What middle school? What high school? What college?

Are you using your time effectively? What do you plan to do with yourself when you grow up?

Me: What am I doing with my life?

Me: I’m going to Neverland and you’re never going see me figure out what I’m doing with my life. I’m going to meet mermaids and battle Hook.