Finding the Light Switch

Her name was Evangeline and more often than not,

she was alone.

Her name was Evangeline, and yes,

she may have been alone but she was rarely lonely.

But regardless of whether you are lonely or not,

being alone takes its toll.

For her, the depression was an odd sort of happiness.

She fell in love with the sadness

and the deepness that came with it

because melancholy had become her haven

and her mind the only respite.

So each morning she got up and put on her face.

Mascara, her optimism,

blush, her trust,

and lipstick, her honesty.

But in her mind, they stumbled,

all her sorrows and all her unforgivables.

They felt around the walls of her head,

looking for the glow at the end of the chasm but knowing,

she wanted to stay in the dark

with hands covering her eyes

as soon as she glimpsed a star.

And those hands were smaller than she thought,

younger than she thought,

more dependent than she thought.

She was indignant of this because

her independence had become her security blanket,

her happy place,

her warmth in the dead of winter.

And more than anything,

it was her dependency that frightened her.

Because to be dependent on anything, anyone,

meant that she was no longer in control,

that her emotions were not her own.

She was afraid of being wrong, and sometimes,

she was afraid of being right.

She was afraid of seeing eyes in the space between the windowsill and the blinds and

of getting hurt and crooked picture frames and different foods touching each other on her plate and of trusting people and getting too comfortable.

She was afraid of getting betrayed but really,

she was afraid that she would do the betraying.

More than anything, though,

she was scared of someone knowing her

better than she knew herself.

So she tried to keep a tidy soul

and all that she did,

all that she was,

was innocence.

And though her independence was everything to her,

she was just a little girl

tangled in the sheets after a nightmare,

unable to find her way towards the light switch.

And she needs to learn that in order to find the light,

all she needs to do is take the hand of the person walking right beside her that she has refused to acknowledge.

Easier said than done.

And she has had it said to her.

Over and over.

But her name was not Evangeline, not really,

and more often than not,

she was never alone.

And more often than not,

she was never lonely.

Because more often than not,

she was content.

Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda makes me jealous.

In all honesty, I don't know what does it. The poems I like most of his, If You Forget Me and Love Sonnet XVII, are the ones that really get to me. I love the simplicity of them. I feel like, generally speaking, you can get across the most honesty, and the emotions that most everyone understands, if you speak simply. Think about it: when you say just one word, say, "lost" or "sunbeam" or "forlorn", a very specific feeling comes to mind. Neruda is talented in taking only a few words and letting them sink in deep. My favorite is the phrase that simply says, "If you forget me, I shall already have forgotten you." How... depressing. It's like the poor guy is trying to convince himself that he will be just fine if the love of his life forgets him. 

He won't.

Breathe out, and begin.

This, this is for you.

This is for the mousy brown haired girl who died it pink, hoping maybe her mother would notice. This is for the wedding planner who never got a wedding of her own. This is for the girl who walks out of the room during the slow dance and the boy who watches her go.

This is for the girl whose jeans are too loose. This is for the man who shot for the moon and fell into the dark abyss instead. This is for the little boy who is so, so sick of having his head under the pillow. So sick of hearing the fights.

It’s monotonous.

This is for the bullet that never wanted to hurt anybody and for the prima ballerina who never asked for the spotlight. This is for the adults that are scared of the dark. This is for the lunch ladies and the world-renowned surgeons who never lived up to their potential. This is for all the miscarriages.

This is for those trapped inside their heads. Stop analyzing.

This is for the pilot who’s afraid of heights and for all the insomniacs. This is for the underdogs- the boy with the brother who’s the star quarterback, the girl with the prettier twin sister.

This is for the unseen and the unheard and the unsaid.

This is for those with handkerchiefs over their mouths and nooses around their necks.

Speak.

This is for the criticizers. This is for those who ask, “God? Are you there?” This is for the weary and the dreamers and the weary dreamers. This is for the disillusioned and the brokenhearted. The failures and the inadequates. This is for the cast aways and the unfortunate and the overwhelmed and the fools and the shipwrecked and the ruined. This is for they who are grasping at last straws. This is for the future you, just around the bend, and this is for me.

Speak. Someone will hear you. You are not alone. Turn on the microphone, or maybe just stop the murmuring inside your head.

STOP WHISPERING. Stop talking to only yourself.

Come out from under the tides and grab the hand that’s being held out to you. It is for you, after all.

Wake up.    Take a deep breath.    And speak.

We’re all listening so let inspiration bleed out of your every word. Let the elation gather in the air around your face like frosty breath. Let us see it. Let us feel it. Let us wave our hands through it, just so we can be sure it’s real. Because we need fresh air.

We need unfamiliar air.

Philosophy Filled Boots

I need to refill the lead in my pencil. Refill the lead in my life.

I need to refill those things called emotions that are supposed to go in my heart.

Can I have an instruction booklet, please? Thanks.

I always wanted to be somebody’s last chance. I was hoping to be yours, but instead I burned the letters because everything I touch turns to ash, anyway.

Was our love worn in or worn out boots?

Your opinion was switching so fast towards the end that you about gave me whiplash. 

No, not boots. I think you compared our love to a coat, one that you grew out of a few years back. The kind that’s just a bit too short, a little too tight in the shoulders.

That sure made me feel good.

But I gave you false compliments and white lies! Isn’t that what you do when you care about someone? Sure, honey, that puke green goes really well with your eyes.

I was there for you, I really was.

And in my mind I was even giving you real compliments, the ones that always brought that uncomfortable expression to your face.

You never liked the truth, that’s a fact.

And now my emotions feel like shattered glass and a roll of tape that doesn’t work.

“When will we own ourselves completely?”

That was what you asked me. I didn’t understand- why would I have to own myself when I had you to take care of me?

Ah, now I see.

I keep forgetting that you left.

I feel like I’m getting swallowed up in the tides while I wait for you to come back.

Wait.

            Wait.

                        Wait.

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable in my own skin- like I should start looking for the fire escape because all I can see is the smoke I’m choking on and the absence of myself.

I should start coloring outside the lines and

wearing sunglasses that nobody thinks are my style.

I should start disregarding social cues and

stop slowing down at yellow lights.

I should stop giving up because, seriously, what a waste of time.

So pack up that awful coat and

those philosophies and

my feelings and

walk away.

Oh.

I keep forgetting that you left.

My Story

Ordinary World: Aria has grown up as a princess in her barbarian kingdom and is used to being downtrodden on by her father.
Call: A prince from another kingdom kidnaps her for reasons that are unknown to her. The call is for her to become a better person, gain confidence and the like.
Refusal: Her refusal is simply keeping her head down and not doing anything about it, not standing up for herself.
Mentor: One of the guards becomes her friend and is her mentor throughout the whole time that she is in the country.
Threshold: The threshold is when she crosses the border into the other country and goes into the capital where the palace is.
Tests, allies, enemies: Allies of hers are the guards that were with her when she traveled to the new country. Enemies are herself and her natural submissive personality and all of the people in the country that shun her because she is an outsider.
Approach: She finds out that people are going to try and kill the royalty and she has to decide what to do about it- stay loyal to her own country or to her kidnapper's?
Ordeal: Her ordeal is saving the royalty and facing her own father in the process.
Reward: Her and the prince declare their love and it is super duper romantic.
The Road Back: Everything is all fine and dandy, she is living in the new country.

Death:She has to go back to her own country and everything is sad again. Wow. This post sucks.
Resurrection: Her father finally recognizes her as an individual and as a strong person.
Return with Elixir: She gets to go back to the other country and live happily ever after.

Archetypes

Hero: Aria is the hero, in that she grows throughout the story as a person and saves some people along the way, as a bonus.

Mentor: Her mentor is her friend that was originally one of the guards who helped with her kidnapping.
Threshold Guardian: The prince who kidnapped her is the threshold guardian but instead of guarding it, he kind of just shoves her through it.
Shapeshifter: This is one of the princesses that hates Aria.
Shadow: The shadow is really just her own self confidence, or lack thereof.