Highway at Night


If you asked me why I write, I would ask you not to ask me that. You already know the answer. But if I must tell you, I am searching. And you already know what for. In a world that moves too fast, that moves too slowly, that never seems to move in a way that makes sense to me, I am searching.

The answer lies by the oceanside, of course. It floats around me in the salty, sea air. It ebbs and flows towards and away from me on the crest of each frothy, cerulean wave. When I’m ready to find the answers, the ocean is where I’ll be. The ocean is where I’ll be, if you’re ever looking to find me.

I write because too often my lipsย trip and stumble over words that are too inadequate for the tumbling thoughts in my mind. I write because there aren’t many souls in my life who would understand what I meant, and also what I didn’t. I write because sometimes the words build up on my clumsy tongue and I begin to feel as though I may scream. I write to find release.

If you ask me why I write, I would tell you it’s because I love you. I love so many You’s. So many like You. So many who aren’t like You. I want to share with you the things I cannot share with those I hold so close to me. You could say I hold you closer. I write to not feel so alone even though I don’t too much mind being lonely.

I write because the night hours stretch ahead of me like a damned, black highway, leading to something that leaves me feeling unsure, a highway that leads nowhere. I write to fill the silence. I write to quiet the noise. I write to fill the emptiness. I write when I need to be alone.

I write because I am searching. Like so many others like me, I write to find what I am missing. I already know what it is I am looking for. I just don’t know when I’ll find it.


The Light


What was I trying to say just then? The words didn’t make any sense once they touched the page. My thoughts, a whirlwind of butterflies, dancing in an autumn breeze- beautiful but still I cannot grasp them. I was trying to tell you about the emptiness, but now I’m emptied of words, there’s none left to use. I’ve lost my momentum. I’m not like the rest of them you know, who take and take and take. I want to give you all of me and show you what it’s like. It has to be you because there’s a weakness in you that I can fill with the dimming light in me. Let me fill you with my darkness and I’ll drink from yours in return. It has to be You because you understand, even when you don’t. We live these mediocre lives, always searching for the greatness inside, telling ourselves we don’t need another soul. But I need you and you need me and it’s a pity it wasn’t written in the stars for us because together, we could’ve created something magical.

Make Believe


Memories of playing dress-up and tea party, just a young thing in a world of wonderment, an imagination without boundaries, escaping reality at every chance. But no, that’s not how life was. I was young once, and I had a vivid imagination, but nothing ever as innocent as princess tea parties and fairy godmothers. I dreamt of being beautiful, of belonging to a family that I resembled instead of the one that I wasn’t born into. A mother with the same tawny shaded skin as me, the same full lips and thick, dark, wavy hair.

I lived inside of fictional worlds, scrawling my soul onto pages as early as I can remember. Spiral notebook after notebook, stacked in neat piles until I reached the age where I needed something more, sturdy, fancy books whose pages I tore with my pens, hiding them on the top of closet shelves and under mattresses, underneath wardrobe dressers, wherever I could find some privacy.

The feeling of exposure when my privately written words were read by eyes they weren’t meant for. My soul being ridiculed and dreams being degraded and destroyed. Yet still I wrote. I never gave it up. Writing is what I do. It’s all I have.

I never dreamt of love, it was always a fairytale, a fable, fiction that was beyond my comprehension. I couldn’t even write a love story if my life depended on it. What is love? A mythical creature, the things nightmares are made of.

As an adult I continued to try to play pretend. I tried to be a wife and mother like those I read of so often in my beloved novels. One that is domestic and caring and dutiful and beautiful and all it got me was pain and pain and more pain. A madness so deep and dark that I prayed for it to end but it never did.

I pretended to be okay, I pretended to be alive. I pretended that I wasn’t pretending. I made myself into who I thought I was supposed to be, so many different sides of me, it was what I imagine being schitzophrenic must be like. While I was trying to find myself, it seems that I lost myself. And after I was done pretending, after I had run out of imaginary plotlines, after I had hit rock bottom, a brick wall, what I thought was the end, only then did I begin to live.



Did I say too much? Did my vulnerability and temporary moment of madness make you uncomfortable? I tried to hold it in, but it had to be let loose or I would’ve begun to slowly crumble like a cliffside weathered away by the ocean waters I love so much. I almost regretted letting you see that side of me, but it is who I am.

I lay in bed for so long, wishing for sleep to overcome me, for me to forget about the chaos that was bubbling inside, slowly taking over every part of me. And eventually, it did. After my tears had dried up and my heart calmed a bit, I was drug into the peaceful depths of sleep where the nightmares didn’t come and for that, I was thankful.

But then this morning I was worried. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken those words. Maybe I should’ve tried harder to find a way out of that dark place. Sometimes it’s not that easy. Sometimes it feels like drowning. Like drowning while sailing through the air, waiting to hit rock bottom.

I tried to occupy my mind with videos and words and sleep. I tried to will myself to be at peace. And then I worried that I said too much. Did I say too much?

But those words were the most real. They were my truth. They were painful and dark but beautiful in their own way because they were my truth.




When it gets like this it frightens me how quickly the illness takes over, but really, can I even call it an “illness”? True, there’s a pill I can take to help diminish this sickness which I’ve only just swallowed down before I started writing this, but the illness, I don’t think I will ever fully recover from it. My teeth feel numb and the underside of my tongue tingles which has always been a warning sign of an oncoming episode. I keep thinking of those people in that waiting room, the one I always feel so out of place in, the people that I can’t decide whether or not I’m not as sick as because I cannot express my insanity as well as they do or that I’m sicker than for the same reason. I need to be held right now and told that I’m loved and safe but if this were to actually happen I wouldn’t believe the words anyhow. There’s a black sadness building inside of me that I know will turn into rage tomorrow and I’ll hate nearly everything that I know I truly love. My bed will be my sanctuary and my mind will be my prison and I’ll spend the next few weeks replaying every single moment between the last time and this time, trying to remember the offense I committed to deserve such a cruel punishment.

Weekly Smile #73


Ahhh Weekly Smile time! I think this may become a wonderful weekly gratitude post for me! The two biggest smiles for me this week have been that I have written every day this week (which makes me extremely happy!) and today I hit 500 subscribers on my blog which is a tremendous honor for me! I hope I can keep the creative momentum going! Pretty great week for me! ๐Ÿ’–

Without Red


Wrap me in a love that’s black, not red because I associate red with pain, no, it must be black because black is impenetrable. Love me with a love so black that nothing can tear my heart out and shred it to a thousand pieces like it’s been done too many times before. Wrap me in a love that’s black, not yellow because I associate yellow with happiness and for me, love is anything but happy. It’s emotional and nerve wracking and painful and if it doesn’t hurt it just ain’t love. On days like today when my insides hurt I hide beneath my blanket and let the anxious thoughts roll around in my head, rattling like tin cans blowing around outside in a hurricane and it’s anything but calm. Caress me with a love that’s black, not white like the cotton puffs of clouds in the sky, so delicate, so slow-moving, taking their time to make it from here to there. White reminds me of pureness and there’s nothing pure inside of me. The anxiety and depression and jealousy and rage leave no room for anything pure. There’s only room enough for destruction and I much more prefer it this way anyways. Adore me with a love that’s black, not pink because pink is for delicate, dainty, beautiful women. Women who are soft and tender and so many more things that I am not and can never be. Adore me with a love so black that I cannot see myself in it and who I truly am or the pink woman I can never be. Favor me with a love that’s purple, not red, ย purple is my favorite color. I think of loyalty when I think of purple and loyalty is sometimes hard to come by. Favor me with a love that’s purple, more than you have ever or could ever favor another because my love is like no other. My love is neverending and can help you achieve your dreams. Favor me with a love that’s purple and see that I will always be by your side, through good times and bad, through sunny days and stormy ones because I am faithful. Consume me with a love that’s orange, not red, but the orange of an inferno. Yeah, I know, fire is usually associated with red, but not the fiery intensity of my love. No, the love I desire can only be accepted in orange, an orange so brilliant as it rages out of control that you have to shield your eyes from it’s magnificence. Touch me with a love so colorful that I have no choice but to believe in it’s truth. Love me colorfully but please don’t scorch me with a love that’s red.