for poetry's sake.

I have never felt so connected

and disconnected all at once-

The clouds inside my head floating

across my eyes which have

seen such sights as those that flash

red and blue

through the curtains and the window

they strike his face

setting off fires in between us but

I will not feel a thing at you you

are not

are not him

and he is all I am.

What I don't need:

this tightness of skin

itching, rubbing, coarse

the price to pay for cleanliness

feeling scrubbed and fresh but

without him

I I am not.

Not at all.

As I pull my eyes and head down

down to

close I will

think and feel

both connected and disconnected

from him

from me

from it

from all

from Earth.

actress much?

For the last 20 years I've been trying to live in the world that everyone else lives in. Until now, I didn't even know I was trying, let alone failing. You see, I live in a fantasy world. An alternate reality, where I'm the center of it all. I play every role: the damaged girl, the spoiled brat, the dreamer...whatever suits the moment. I'm always a character, and I'm always center stage. I write my own lines and change them as I go. What's worse is, I think I can direct, too, and put all the other little pawns in their place. I'm now aware of all this, and yet I don't know how to change it.

I picked the wrong major.

night-time nonsense.

As I lay awake listening to my drunken friends and some random guys, I'm realizing that I'm 20 years old, a sophomore in college...and I'm over it. Dirty bathrooms with no toilet paper, waiting 20 minutes for a cup of Natty that's half foam, freezing my ass off walking down Broad St. at 2am because there's no where to put coats in a frat house; what's the point? I'm not trying to sound stuck up, but it's a Thursday night, and I'd lay around in sweats and watch TV than "quench my thirst" while packed together like sardines in a tin can.

I guess part of it could be that I'm in happy, committed relationship- most go out to find someone to bump n' grind with (not to mention sweat all over), and possibly take back to their room for we-all-know-what*. I'm certainly not here to judge, and if it works for you, then by all means. But, personally I'm feeling past all that.

There's so much more out there. I want to feel. I know that seems vague, but I don't know how else to explain it. I just want to know the meaning behind everything, the emotion that comes with it. I want to feel them all. And I want to achieve things- reach goals, do things I can really be proud of. I want to join the Peace Corp. I've always wanted to. I want to teach, because I really believe teaching is the best way to learn. I know I chose journalism because I want to write, but I wish I hadn't. I know I'll go back and get a master's at some point, and it will most likely be in education. I can still write AND teach...I think journalism should be a minor. That way I could have done both. Oh well.

The things I feel at night are so different from the day. In the day, things are manageable, organized, tangible. At night, my thoughts are everywhere, forcing me out of my body and taking me where none of the day-time things matter. Sometimes I hate it, but mostly I wish it was always like this...that I could just observe my surroundings and let thoughts flow freely in and out of my mind. But rational returns with the sun rise, and I'm back to worrying about college and jobs and majors and friends and parties. Maybe that's why people like to party- so they can forget all these worries. Me? I'd rather just float around.

*Makes more sense than "who-knows-what", doesn't it?

a poor excuse for an apology.

You are the strong one- I am weak, please forgive me
To cheat on a lover is to hold their head underwater
I have drowned you in my actions and these tears you see
And you are swimming with no air, breathing in my sorrow

writer's block to the 10th power.

For the first time in my soon-ending teen life, I find myself avoiding the computer. I know that if I were to allow myself to waste away the usual hours with my beloved MacBook, eventually I would have to make up for all that unproductive time with some quality prose. Writing has always been my escape, my therapy, and for that reason I have been avoiding it. But every time I put fingers to keypad, I know what I must do: I have to write about what I did.

This is not as easy as it sounds. For telling the whole world what I did by word-of-mouth is something else entirely then coming to terms with my own feelings about it. People do it all the time, I tell myself. You're not a bad PERSON, you just did a bad THING. I push the angel off my shoulder and hear what the devil has to say: He would never do anything to hurt you, devil-me hisses in my ear. He loves you unconditionally and would do anything for you. And this is how you show your love?

Should I really listen to that devil? Isn't that who convinced me to do what I did, with the help of a few shots of rum and a couple of beers? Why can't I come to terms with this? This must be the way everyone else feels when they do this, right?

It seems I was wrong: a month isn't enough time. I guess my computer will go unused a little longer.

this is blogging?

It occurred to me a moment ago that this is a blog. Yes, I was always aware that I was writing on blogger/blogspot, and that url contained the word "blog", but what I'm doing doesn't really feel like blogging to me. In my opinion, blogging isn't talking about yourself on random occasions, like I do. It's something one does frequently, usually daily or multiple times a day, or at least a few times a week. And I always thought that blogging was supposed to be about a specific subject, or at least a central issue. I guess I myself am a specific subject, but that just seems narcissistic to me (yes, I had to spellcheck "narcissistic"). But I don't think the definition of blogging is quite as specific as I've made it out to be.

Personally, writing isn't like a job for me, it's just a part of life. Not to romanticize it or anything, but it really is as essential as breathing. Obviously, I don't do it quite as much, but if I don't write frequently, my head feels like it will explode. Actually, what happens is I have a sort of J.D.-from-Scrubs-like moment, and begin to think in a narrative-style. That's when I know I have to go write something down, or I'll just keep narrating everything. And it's really hard to hear what other's are saying when there's this monologue in my head overshadowing what's around me. I guess that's why I chose a field of study that involves writing. Why not do what I love/have to do, and get paid for it? And now-a-days, people actually get paid to blog. Imagine if I got paid to do this? I would write a whole hell of a lot more, that's for sure.

Speaking of money, I really can't keep writing anymore, as I have a lot to do before a job interview this afternoon. Too bad it's not related to journalism at all...

"there's no place like home."

"Home is where the heart is." I know it's cliche, (and I hate cliches,) but there is no phrase I believe in more. I assume that, for most 19-year-olds, "home" is the house they grew up in, the house where one or both of their parents live. Or most of the 19-year-olds I know.

But for me, home has only ever been one place: State College, PA. 13 years, two houses, six schools, three significant deaths, one first love, one depression diagnosis, and countless dance recitals, football games, and friendships make my first, and only, hometown. Looking at it today, the college town surrounded by farm country is flawless, and shines like my own personal Oz; get there, and everything will be all right.

It wasn't always this way though. As an insomniac from ages 10-15, State College was as black-and-white as Dorothy's Kansas. And just like the naive farm girl, I didn't know what I had until it was gone. After moving to Allentown, PA, a few weeks before my sophomore year of high school, I saw that starting over completely is not as easy as it may seem. But slowly, acquaintances turned into friends, a second love began, and my depression even started to wane. Maybe this could be home now.

At least, that's what I tried to convince myself. But here I am, back in Allentown for the summer after my first year of college, and I have to say I hate it already. I've tried to reconnect with the friends that got me through high school, but none seem too eager. My mom says to just keep trying, but who wants to be that annoying friend who always wants to know what everyone's doing so they can join in? Not me. I'm starting to believe that maybe what I had with these people wasn't friendship at all, but in fact, situational.

Can you really ever have more than one home? My very closest friends still live in State College, and I find myself more eager by the day to drive that 180 mile yellow brick road. We all just want to find acceptance, find those people that make us happy to be ourselves. That's what I think home is, and for now, I only have one.