Overwhelmingly Numb

If someone out there would like to talk to me, inspire my writing, tell me a story, sing me a song, cry out for humanity. Prove to me that I’m alive. And that you’re alive. And that we’re here in the human condition. Reveal human enthusiasm. A thirst to create. Show me who you are in your choices and the legacy you’ll leave behind with your relationships. I haven’t found someone I want to talk about real things with in a while. I can’t remember the last time I felt something for someone else. And sure, a lot of it is my fault. I accept that. My guard is up. That’s true. But I haven’t found someone to take it down for. Not even a girl. No one. Anyone to trust, to want to open up to. And maybe I’m not looking. I’ve lost hope. I trust the douchebags because I can trust them to be douchebags. And I have my eyes closed to the good people right in front of me. And I remember that I’ve given away so many pieces of me already. And become scared I’m almost out. And that my story is losing value. I haven’t found someone to be vulnerable with since Sean. Wow. I’m just now realizing this and it’s blowing my mind. I was seeing this guy––Sean. He and I hit the ground running. On our first date, he gave me a moon stone. On our second date, I saw his scars. On our third date, he said he loved me. I allowed myself to be his. And I was. And he hurt me. And I hurt him. And I hurt me. But I can’t hurt anymore. I can’t. So I don’t hurt. And I don’t anything. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel. I keep my head up. And I keep moving forward. And I keep working on me. And I forget about how happy I felt. I forget about the way he looked at me. How he used to wake up in the middle of the night and pull me into his embrace, then kiss me. And I forget what he did. I forget the hate and I remember that there are others out there like me. And they ache like me. They feel like me. Fellow romantics who long for emotion. and life. vitality. inspiration. I’m all so melodramatic. And I know that. Really, I do. But how long until I let myself, be myself? Until someone makes me feel alive.

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a Willow, a Gardener, a Girl

I don’t know. I’m not naive as I once was, though part of me is. There’s this willow tree inside of me––my head, that is. And she’s so whimsical. She holds this wisdom. She’s my god. This willow tree is my God. And I am the willow tree. And I know how things work. But I have this little girl named Ophelia in my head too. And she dances around my tree. She dances among the wildflowers. And she has love in her eyes. Every now and then a gardener comes to tend to the willow and girl. She’s beautiful, the gardener is. Her hair flows as the willows leaves in the wind. Her soul as deep as her olive green eyes. She’s a healer. Her skin is decorated with intricate patterns. And these patterns tell stories. They tell her stories. She teaches the little girl. Ophelia hasn’t been hurt. She’s hurt people before, but she’s like a bird. And she was never meant to be caged. And if she does get caged, and my gardener stops coming around, then the magic will leave, and as the gardener loses her pattern, the once-naive girl will lose her magic, and then my willow tree becomes just another tree. And I die before I’ve lived.

Impressions in clay

When I was in high school, I watched first hand as arts programs were threatened and lost priority and funding at my school. I went to a liberal arts, college prep high school and art classes were an essential part to our(the students) day to day lives. Going to a college prep high school meant having an incredibly demanding workload matched by impossibly high expectations, on top of which I was playing a varsity sport and we were just getting into tournament which meant more rigorous practices. Under that amount of pressure, anyone could snap. It’s for that reason that I sought refuge in any form I could find it, even if it meant taking myself out of my crowd.

When I found out the only art class I could fit in my schedule was pottery, I reluctantly agreed on the condition that my best friend join the class as well. On the first day of class, we were divided into two groups. Because there were only enough wheels for half of us to work at a time, the other half of the class make coil pots. My friend and I were separated and since I didn’t have any other friends there, I was alone with my thoughts.

When we began throwing on the wheel, I picked it up instantly. Once my hands hit the clay I was hooked. Day after day I showed up and spent an hour experimenting on the wheel. Most days I walked out of the studio with nothing to show for it other than a more refined technique I could use to make a better piece. I began to use this time to clear my head and try to gain perspective in things. After a long day of work that left me mentally exhausted, I could sit down, close my eyes, and center my clay on the wheel. Once the clay was centered, I’d take a dripping wet sponge out of the water bucket and squeeze it over the clay, applying pressure to the foot pedal to make the wheel rotate. When the clay was wet enough to work, I’d push my palm into the center of the rotating wheel to flatten it. I’d watch the pattern my fingers made radiating out from the center of the clay carrying the stress of the day with them.

I write because..

I write because no one else will. Years are fleeting moments decaying and this is the best gift I can give myself. I’m giving 30 year from now me the story they’ll want to read. The time she went skinny dipping with strangers at 3am. The time I stole 5k dollars worth of goods from the mall with friends. The time I backpacked through Daniel Boone and got lost in Central Park in the pouring rain. I’ll have the loss I felt when Danny died. The loss I feel from the death of myself everyday. I have who I was. The time I ran away. The time I lost my way for a few months, found myself, and lost myself a week later. I’ll have the first time I purged. I’ll have my life and a few polaroids. The real story. It will be of no value to anyone else, but to me it will be worth more than my life. I write publicly to make others feel less alone. I write privately to make myself feel less alone.

My Day 1

feb 17 2016 19:11

So I think to myself all the time. Nonstop. And I laugh at my thoughts. Do you ever feel like your best friend is yourself. Like I have myself with all my greediness and what not. Then I have my base self who I talk to and holds all my memories. We talk. Compare notes. So they know all the horrible things I’ve done and they know how bad of a person I am. They laugh at me for being foolish. But we still homies. We still make jokes and think about things together. Like when you’re in a really bad situation and you think to yourself. I gotta get out of here. I gotta do this. Abby you know this is bad. That’s my homie keep in me straight. And when I make some Dank food, they’re like. Awe shit this boutta kill it. Or you’re drunk in front of the mirror and you know things are going downhill do you give yourself a pep talk and say. Abby get your shit together. Ya know. Like you two have been through this ride together and your base self holds the selfless perspective. You two homies bc your base self is your day one

Books

feb 9 2016 14:59

I was in Ben Stroud’s office today. He is a professor at UT. While he was setting up my internships at the paper and darrins to give me credit, i was looking around his office–mostly at the bookshelves. He has two bookshelves filled to the tops of each shelf stacked on other books with books. It’s completely filled. I was looking up and down it at all the different books and I noticed my eyes were drawn to the same books on each sweep of the shelf. There was a large, purple and black book, an average sized black and white book, and an orange and cream book. I thought about why I looked at each of these. The purple and black one was large and in a prominent location, so that made sense. The orange and cream book was surrounded by a bunch of black and dark color books, so that too, made sense. The average sized black and white one was nothing special. It was surrounded by average books. what drew my eyes to it was the fact that the book was 80% white, and the bottom was black. I was only looking at the book spines, thats important. The part that was 80% white had slim letters on it but they were slightly bolded and black. So my eyes were drawn to the basic, yet effective design. And i got to wondering. Do publishers think of this when they make book spines. Some of them had nearly illegible fonts from over 1 ft away. I have more to say on this, but i can’t focus. I dont really know if Ill come back to it. I have so many thoughts every day that i want to post but I’m just too busy. its sad. I like having free time for that reason. I can have thoughts. but truth be told, i dont spend my free time posting on here, i spend it living. I have more to say on that too. about how you dont really live unless you remember it or something like that.

Moments

nov 24 2015 4:32am

there are moments. moments of utter tranquility. for me they happen when i am alone. ill never forget the first one i had. i was 8 and at amends house in mexico. it was early morning. around 4am. i didn’t sleep back in the day either. i had my blanket with me. it was my knit blanket i took everywhere. that blanket and my bunny were my things. but i remember every moment so vividly. i was barefoot. the brickstone floor leading from the guest house to the beach. when i first stepped out of the guest how there was so little sand. then as i got closer to the front cottage, more and more sand crunched beneath my feet. i couldn’t see the ocean clearly yet because the early morning fog, but i could hear it. i got to the point where the brick pathway ended and the beach began. there was an old chair. it had yellow strips on it. i sat in that chair with my blanket and my bunny and just listened to the water. i felt the wind on my face. i was cold, but i sat there and enjoyed it. another moment. before basketball games that were home at night, allie megan fenton and grace. all the basketballl girls really. they would play music as loud as it would go, turn off the lights, and dance. i got so overwhelmed by it. outside it was frigid. sometimes there was snow. but the stars were always out. the stars and the moon. i would grab my fleece blanket, my phone, and my boots. then id go outside until merc called us to the pregame meeting. it would just be me and my music. and of course the stars. while in italy, i was constantly with people. I’ve written about this before i believe. but i was in rome. and the stars were out of course. we were in the shopping district and we had passed a brandy melville. but that was a mile ago. anyway, bobak gave us 30 minutes to shop around. i walked to the brandy melville thinking i had enough time. by the time i got there, i had 13 minutes to get back. so i grabbed everything i like and checked out as fast as i could. then i had 7 minutes to spare. so i ran back to the group. it had been raining and still was slightly. so i ran back through the light rain in the night back to the group. it wasn’t the shopping that i loved. it was this specific moment. it didn’t last long. but ill never forget it. i was running through puddles and there were lights strung across the dark streets and people were waving to me and smiling. i dont know what it was. i was just running. i can’t explain it. but i can feel it. while in venice, we had just gotten back to the hotel on the last day in italy. it was a year ago last night. kat and maria were in the room. maria listening to music and they were talking about how excited they were to be home. my bed was closest to the window, so i was looking out and saw that i could sit on the roof. i spent a lot of time outside the windows. libby and i were shirtless outside a window one night. it was funny. anyway i started to climb out the window. kat and maria didn’t notice. i was wearing nathans plaid pajama pants and my new jim morrison doors shirt. i just sat outthere without my contacts. somehow i could see everything though. i saw lovers pass holding hands with their necks within each others. i saw parents walk by with their little kids. the stars and moon were brilliant that night. i could see them. the sky was painted with the stars. i just sat there and hummed songs to myself. i could feel it. well, right now I’m sitting in the auditorium with all the lights off. there are no people around me. its pitch black. nothing but my laptop light. im listening to my mumofrd radio. the first song that came on was lovers eyes. it was the live version. so lovely. hm. its so beautiful. i can’t write fully about my experience right now, but it is a moment.

Each Individual Person

nov 15 2015 16:26

all over the news are the horrors of what ISIS is doing around the world. Paris, France specifically. I dont want to talk about that. what i want to talk about is the individual person in ISIS. they’re all people. caught up in something bad. and no theres no turning back. they were all babies, then toddlers, then teens and now theyre adults. some still are teens. but they were innocent just like everyone else. I’m sure some still are. they have loved ones. they have people in their lives that they value the opinion of. in health classes, we were always told if we were doing something bad, imagine our grandparents were watching us. and i dont know abut others. but that works for me. i have things i wouldn’t want them seeing, we all do. so do the militants. they all have loved ones and people they respected at one point. and here they are. i tweeted the other day, i wonder if miley cyrus ever wonders how she got where she was, like what happened. and i think we all ask ourselves that. but these militants. i wonder if they ask themselves. how did i get to be part of a terrorist group. how did i become one of those people who just kills. for no apparent reason. they have reason. but theres no reason to take the life of the innocent. i wonder if they realize what they’re doing when they’re doing it. do they realize the effect of the bullet they fire. I’m sorry this isn’t well written. i just wonder about it and haven’t had enough time to think about it.

1 in 6

oct 24 2015 17:26

I’m sitting in a comp 1 class. we are talking about posters and what they advertise. we are talking about a sexual consent poster. it says, does she want to go home with you, or does she just want to go home. while we discuss, its really only the girls talking and one guy. i looked around and realized, 1 in 6 men are involved in sexual violence. id bet to say its higher than that because even harassing that girl for her number or dancing on her and pushing forward is sexual harassment. on that thought, i realized, there are about 20 men in this class. of that 20, 3-4 will end up raping a girl or sexually violating her. not to mention repeat offenders. the men in this class are reflecting on their actions I’m sure and that is why they aren’t talking. they know. it sounds one sided, but it is what it is.

what i see

oct 13  2015 4:57

I suppose its all relative really. i was at megans watching American Beauty. good film. the movie ended. i looked around the house as i was getting my stuff together to leave. I’ve been reflecting lately. do i really need this. I’m not planning on buying more “stuff” because i dont need it. I can’t take it everywhere i go and i dont plan on staying in the same house for a long time. i plan on moving a lot. so i shouldn’t buy objects. I’ve always said its for the experiences. so i was at ellens, means mom, looking at their home. i saw the large vase in the corner with fake plants in it. i saw the mass produced sculpture of a human being dancing from pottery barn. i saw the paintings on the walls and seeing this got me to thinking. i thought this all within seconds. ellen sees things that fill her house. objects that reflect her taste and wealth. i see the concert tickets that weren’t purchased and i see the trip that wasn’t taken to the zoo. i see the gas money needed to go to any nat’l park. its a shame. wiz khalifa has a song, when I’m gone. and its about how his money means nothing and his possessions mean nothing because when he’s gone, they do absolutely nothing. they sit. i dont know. its just like, go to rome. go to Indonesia. donate that money to a hospital. see your favorite band while you can. go out and live. dont buy things just so you can sit in your house and appreciate what you own. go out an appreciate who you have and what the world has. it seems so arbitrary but it is what it is. dont waste another moment. go out and live the life others can’t. go out and live. be the person you admire most. just fucking be.