All I want for Christmas, is myself.

"Somewhere there's a stolen halo
I use to watch her wear it well
Everything would shine wherever she would go
But looking at her now you'd never tell

Someone ran away with her innocence
A memory she can't get out of her head"
The first verse and a half of a song called Holy Water by Big and Rich. A song that plays too close of a tune to my heart. 

I feel like a stranger in my own home. I feel like a stranger among my friends. I feel as if I let everyone down in a different way.

I don't laugh at the jokes. It causes me to break my promises. It leaves me in shattered pieces on the floor, with no one to talk through it with.

I'll never quite be whole again. I'm a hollow shell, walking around with the best fake smile I can muster. Walking around full of sour tears and shattered hopes. Walking around with half a heart, trying to learn how to love. 

A mere shadow, consumed by demons throw into my life by force. A mere hunter, trying to live off the land with no arrows in my quiver. A creature of the sun, drown in the darkest parts of the ocean, required to live like everyone else. 

No one likes to think the world can be this cruel, so they ignore it. Their ignorance leads to the loss of innocent souls, ripped apart into quivering shreds, swept into the dustpan to fend for themselves. 

Tell me, how is a pile of dust supposed to become a mountain after the volcano already erupted? How can you expect a worm to transform into a butterfly? How can you expect a single-celled organism to evolve into a cheetah within a lifetime?

How can I expect people to understand when 99% of them don't even know? How can I expect people to know why I do certain things? How can I be so selfish to put that kind of pressure on everyone I meet? How can I want people to understand if I am not even capable enough to tell them? 

All these questions suffocate my existence. All the lies protect my persona. Yet when I'm left alone with all the answers, nothing can save me; not the sour elixir binge, or the sharp pain inside. Not the alterations of the impurities of the air, or the salty tears that come too often.

I sit on my bed and gently talk myself out of every dark corner, for I am the only one that knows every thought in my mind. Everyone must know to make my actions easier to understand. No one must know so I can protect the soft center of my being.

Internet, oh vast Internet, please dull my mind and show me the colors.

Never ending block.

Writer's block. Artist's block. Crafter's block. Life block. My world is an never-ending world of blocks. Perhaps that's why I enjoy Minecraft so much. Lifting, creating, flying, building. Endless possibilities from blocks. All blocks. Everything in my mind is clicking, sickening, maddening. Stop. Breathe. Start again.

Every thought I experience is fluid and magical, a drowning wonderful image of euphemistic dreams. Continually floating in the breezes of my mind, swirling in the dust of long forgotten chalkboards. All the beautiful colors rising up into the night sky, sprinkling the ink blots of the universe we so unenthusiastically embrace.

Look at that dark sky, nothing but stars. How horrible it would be to discover every last inch, nook, and cranny of it. What purpose do they serve? Nothing, according to them. Wrong. They're all wrong. Take another look. Don't think about it, just look. That dark sky, with nothing but stars, allows your mind to be free. What's wrong about that? It can escape everything it is confined in. All the work. School work, house work, just work.

How can you all do it? The monotony kills me inside. It shrivels up every last whimsical tendril, swirling it's own design. Crushes all the sparkling sugar cubes of their own geometric patterns, their sweet existence. Dries the vast oceans I drown myself in, just to experience all they can show me. The crushing darkness of hopelessness. The rhythmic waves of all life forms surrounding me. The shivering loneliness of never ending possibilities just out of reach.

As the soft whispers begin to fray, and the gentle wind begins to whip, every block is destroyed. Shattered into as many pieces as you don't care to count, you just stare. Close your eyes, the end is near.

The Hamlet complex. Or maybe it's just Shakespeare who is complex.

Today I read three scenes of the play Hamlet which was written by Shakespeare, so obviously there are going to be a lot of angry and confused people. I only am partially in this category because I like the story lines and ideas that Shakespeare writes about, I just have a hard time understanding what he really was trying to get at. One of the main things that frustrates me, is I always end up paying more attention to the rhyme scheme instead of what the characters are actually saying. I get caught up in it, and end up reading it to a tune, which causes the words to never register because I pay so much attention to the tune I just created and I have no idea what I just read. Another frustrating thing is that Shakespeare never writes just one thing, and so when I interpret it one way and move on to the next part, I interpret that one differently, so my interpretations don't usually line up and I can't piece them together. Sometimes I may get two similar things, but when I do try to follow the story and put them together, I have to jump between them to make my interpretations match up and them get too many assumptions. However, I have noticed that I can understand Shakespeare's writing better when I have other people to discuss it with, or if we read it out loud. Plays are meant to be acted out and not just read on a blank page, so the extra dimension and excitement catch my attention, cause me to listen, and then I tend to pick up more on the things I usually miss when I just read the play by myself. The discussions help with extra interpretations as well, and help me get a better and fuller picture of what is going on and what Shakespeare may have meant. I really try my hardest with plays and poems by Shakespeare, but the dimension and dialect of it, along with the distractions and singularity of homework for it create a complex whirlwind of confusion that frustrates me even further. However, when the story is laid out in front of me in more simpler means, I get inspired and enthusiastic about the idea of them.

Extra sleep always makes me happy

This morning the Sophomores had to take some standardized testing that I'm not quite sure what for. However, I did remember that there was a three hour delay for everyone else this morning who was not taking the testing, which includes me. The amount of joy I felt when I woke up at 6 am, rolled over, and went back to sleep was indescribable. My little sister and mother had to wake up early, so they were envious of my extra hours of sleep, which made it even sweeter. Although I would have liked to sleep in even more, getting up at 8:30 am is better than 6. When I finally did get up, I  put my hair in a ponytail and went to go feed my ducks and clean their cage, mostly because I didn't want to do it last night and I knew I would have extra time in the morning to clean it. So I grabbed their food, turned on the hose, and walked up to their cage. I put the hose in their smelly, green pool, set their food down, and let them out of the cage. Of course, Jude was the first one to hop out because she doesn't like to be cooped up in the cage longer than she has to be. Next comes Prudence, a little lopsidedly because she's a spazz and isn't that coordinated. Lucy comes next, hopping out like it's no big deal, and then finally Eleanor Rigby, because she just doesn't care and is extremely laid back. I crouch down and get their eggs, set them aside, and start cleaning their pool. Although their pool is only a larger sized kiddy pool, it takes a while to clean, mostly because I can't just tip it over and pour all the water out. I have to scoop bucketfuls of water out until it's low enough that the rest of the water will be clean. I began scooping out the atrocious water by the bucketful, getting splashed and muddy all the while. After I clean it and fill it back up again, I notice my dad is leaving for the morning so I wave at him as he leaves, with no recognition I even was there. I brush it off and walk back to the house to go clean off the eggs. I try the garage door, from which I came through this morning to no avail. I try the side door and front door after that, and realize my dad had no idea I was even home, so he locked all of them. Great. Luckily, I knew where the hide-a-key was, so I could actually get back in the house, get all my school stuff, get dressed, and get everything for the day to come. I could only imagine how angry my parents would be when I told them I was locked out and needed one of them to come back so I could get in to the house and get ready for school. Wouldn't that be a great way to start off my three hour delay?

Senior year scramble

Senior year is something that everyone looks forward to; spending time with your friends, having a great job, buying all the cutest new clothes, and getting the best grade for the college of your dreams. Little did anyone think about all the work necessary to get there. Your parents are breathing down your neck to get all your work done so you can get good grades and good scholarships. Both take loads of time that are supposed to appear out of thin air; not only do you have to sit down and finish your homework, but you have to spend the time looking for the right kinds of scholarships. I mean, what the heck are you supposed to google anyways? Next to that, getting a job and making your own money sounds great, that also takes not only more of your time, but also physical activity which makes you even more tired than just school alone. Because you are tired, you don't want to do your homework, but you muster through it anyways. That makes you more tired and frustrated, so you aren't "in the mood" to search for scholarships. It's only the second month of school, and most of us are already tired from the workload of the AP classes we are taking so we can attempt to shave off a couple credits from college to save more money. So your parents won't be as angry and you won't be in debt forever. Senior year has been stressful so far, but hopefully I get used to the workload so I can manage my time more effectively and try to fit everything in.

I felt a Funeral in my Brain

This morning was senior sunrise; a time when the senior class gets up extraordinarily early for teenagers, and watches the sunrise together, symbolizing the beginning of their senior year. Due to the fact that I not only live past town, but I also live past the "past town" on the edge of nowhere, I had to get up at 4:30 in the morning to get to school on time. No way was I wearing real clothes, so I picked out my sweats and a sweater, attempted to let my ducks out who were still sleeping, and left my house. The plus side about driving at 5 am is that no one is up so there is no traffic to deal with. All the seniors looked like zombies when I pulled up, and I understood why. We all watched the sunrise together, and barely made it though our classes alive, seeing how tired we all were. Luckily, one of the perks of being a senior is off campus, which means I got home at 1:30 in the afternoon. I discovered I was home alone, ate ice cream, and updated my iTunes library until 7:30, with a few "play with my cat" breaks and "refill my water cup" breaks and "eat all the goldfish" breaks. I eventually showered and started homework. It is now past ten at night and I am just finishing up my English homework. I feel like I really related to the poem "I felt a Funeral in my Brain" because my day has been 18 hours long so far and I'm attempting to do both AP English homework and AP biology homework with insight and intelligence. It's not my best plan, but you have to do what you have to do. My brain feels like mush, as if it has died and there is now a funeral for it. I especially like the quote "My Mind was going numb" because that accurately describes how I feel. I hope not all days end like this, because I'm not sure how much longer I can handle 18 hour days.

Stubborn by teenage nature

"Just let it come to you naturally," he tells me, as if it were so easy. He's always had a liking for English; his detailed writing, his small, precise hand writing, his seemingly endless ability to analyze text I lose after the first paragraph. He tried to be as supportive as he can be with someone as stubborn as I am. Frankly, I don't know how he does it. I mean I like to take the shortest route possible, and get beyond frustrated when the shortest route is a few miles long. He's like a machine: busting out all his homework in nothing flat, and insightful as can be, as if it came to him naturally. He pushes me along as hard as he can, while I dig my heels in and cross my arms along my chest.

"I believe in you, I know you can do it," I tell him, as his face falls and he doesn't understand. I encourage him in as many ways as I can come up with. He gets angry and takes a break, trying not to think of the time he has to come back and finish. Gently, in sweet caress, I type words onto a digital screen, as full of support and darling honey as I can muster in flat text. He says thank you and feels slightly better. I lift him up, as high as I can reach, even standing on my tip-toes. His reply slouches upon me, making the load harder, yet I still try to hold strong. He tells me he doesn't understand how I deal with him in moments like this. I whisper to him, through the new age method of conversation with past novels staining my skin,  "You are more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same." His reply is a meager smile; a smile that came to him ever so naturally. 

Mirrored stories

While I began my English homework tonight, which partly was to read a poem called Mirrors by Sylvia Plath, I read through the poem like anyone would. It starts out stating that the speaker is a mirror and reflects who you are. It states that it is "not cruel, only truthful," and that it is "unmisted by love or dislike." The next stanza then states that it is a lake, and begins talking about that person's reflection. It describes how she looks from the water's point of view, such as "I see her back, and reflect it faithfully." While reading this poem, I begin to think about the movie The Lake House. The Lake House is about a couple that have lived in th same house, one in 2004, and the other in 2006. Although I don't quite understand how, they end up sending letters to each other and falling in love. Now I won't ruin the end of the movie for you, but it is a very good story. The only downfall is that it can get confusing unless you watch it multiple times. I still don't quite understand it fully. Besides the point, when I read the second stanza in Mirrors about being a lake and reflecting that person, it reminded me of how the couple fell in love in The Lake House, centered around that lake.

A day full of good, clean labor.

A day full of good, clean labor.

Labor Day; ironically enough, a holiday people take off to relax. So today is not really for anything pertaining to labor, just another Americanized tradition that people only follow so they can have a three day weekend. On the contrary, I did more labor than I would have otherwise expected to do. Not only did I feed my ducks, but I also cleaned their pool, cleaned their cage, cleaned their house, and cleaned their eggs. Always cleaning. Luckily, ducks like to clean themselves, so I was saved that amount of cleaning. To make up for it however, I cleaned my car. Cleaned the windows, cleaned the roof, cleaned the body. More cleaning. My dad eventually came out and told me that I needed to help him clean his car today as well, so I moved my car out of the way so it wouldn't get dirty, and began cleaning my dad's car. Cleaned the wheels, cleaned the doors, cleaned the bumper. Am I done cleaning?

After drying my dad's car, I realized I hadn't had breakfast yet from the symphony of rumbling coming from my stomach. I go to make myself a bagel and grab the cream cheese. Moldy. Clean up that mess and look for something else. Some apricot jam catches my eye, and since I have never tried it before, I figured today was the day. Spread half of the warmed bagel with apricot jam, the other with grape. I take a bite and wrinkle my nose at the taste of apricot jam; not as good as I was hoping it would be. Finish it anyways and continue onto the other half, licking my sticky fingers when I finish.

Realizing it was already noon, I go downstairs to do the laundry. Clean up my old clothes, sort them into piles, and begin the washing machine, remembering the time so I can come back downstairs in time to reset it so the other clothes will be clean as well. In between cleanings, I sort through my homework, divide up my time, and begin on what I can. Change the laundry again, type up some homework, change the dryer, fold the clean clothes.

As the day wanes along and the morning turns to afternoon, turns to evening, I realize I need to shower. Clean my hair, clean my face, clean up the wet floor afterwards. Still cleaning. I brush my hair, and begin on the last of my homework, finishing before I eat a dinner of crab, beef, and squash. Finish eating, go back downstairs, and listen to music for an hour or so before I pack my backpack for the next morning. Thankfully, it is a Tuesday, meaning the next weekend will come sooner, with the hopes of less cleaning.