The Black Tattoo

The purpose of this piece was to write a story of less than 1,200 words based off of an American fairy tale (yes, those exist). The fairy tale I chose is The Yellow Ribbon, which you can read  here. It's pretty cool, and definitely something you read as a kid in those Goosebump type books. Anyways, I was supposed to modernize it, and I'm kind of happy with the result. As always, this piece is owned by me, the author, and I reserve full rights to all intended purposes. So please enjoy.

The Black Tattoo

She took a drag on her cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, thoughtfully.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t just say that.”

“I can say anything I want. I don’t see what it matters.”  Another slow drag. He knocked the cigarette from her hand.

He didn’t even know why he bothered putting up with her bullshit most of the time.  There seemed to be no point to it when they weren’t banging.

“You can leave any time you want,” she said, seeming to read his thoughts.

“I know I can.”  He couldn’t even admit to himself the possibility that he might have caught feelings for her.  There was nothing worth it from her.  She was just a normal girl.  She has dull blonde hair.  Large bags under her heavily lidded eyes.  The typical stoner look about her.  But there was something about her that intrigued him.  And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake this feeling that there might be something special about her that he couldn’t quite place.

Perhaps it was the black tattoo that covered the left side of her chest, only visible when she wore those low cut shirts.  It was difficult to describe, sometimes it looked like a flower, or a whole tree full of flowers, and other times it reminded him of the crosshatching of scars and stitches.  And no matter how many times he asked, she refused to tell him what it meant.

“I’ll tell you when you’re ready for it,” she would say.

But no matter how long he stuck around, she refused to tell him.  Despite his pleadings, she would not budge.  This both frustrated him, and yet was the reason he stayed.  There was something special about this, something he couldn’t quite place his finger on.  And so he stayed.

“Well aren’t you the hero.”  She sat up and crossed her arms over her chest.  The two of them sat in the basement glaring at each other from the couches that faced opposite of each other.

“Well if I weren’t here, you probably wouldn’t be either.”

“I hate you,” she spat.  “I don’t deserve this bullshit.  You’re such a piece of shit.”

He stood up and crossed the room, stretching his hands to grasp them around her neck.  “I don’t deserve this either, bitch.  The world isn’t all about you.”

He sat on top of her, holding her down by her shoulders now.  She stared up at him with her green eyes that lacked a certain something.  The worn out black makeup around her eyes gave accentuated that crazy stoner look, but also had a certain sense of allure to him.  It matched the black of her tattoo, barely visible through her lace shirt.  Today it reminded him of a weeping willow, but raised at the edges, as if the ink were brand new.

“You know you can leave?” she asked.  “You don’t have to feel guilty for me.”

“I don’t.  I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m here.  That should mean something.”

“What?”

He didn’t respond.  Simply stared at the tattoo through her black lace shirt.  He moved his hands from her shoulders to the bottom of the shirt, and began to drag it up, pulling it up so he could get a full view of the tattoo, and let the shirt lay on her face, covering her cryptic gaze.  A weeping willow would be the only way to describe it, wide and hovering.  More than that, it seemed as if tattoo itself were actually weeping.  Tears streaming out in the way of black ink.  He felt his own eyes get moist as he traced the lines of the tattoo, over her heart and towards her breasts, disappearing into another world, entirely.  He wiped away the moisture, pulled down her shirt to look her in the eye, and viciously took hold of her lips with his own.

And this is how it goes.

#

“How long have you had it?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“How long is that.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Put down the cigarette.”

“Make me.”

“It’s going to kill you.”

“Maybe I’m already dead.”

Moments like this frustrated him to no end.  He squeezed on her hand, the one that wasn’t slowly killing herself.  He wished that she could feel his frustration and his passion through that squeeze.  Maybe she did.  And maybe she just didn’t care.

“Besides,” she said, finishing it and stomping it out on the curb in front of the movie theatre they were about to enter, “I don’t see why you care.”

“Because I do.  Because I care about you.”

“I still don’t see why.”

Today the tattoo was a collage of faces, all sewn together, all laughing or angry.  Abstract eyes stared at him, pierced his gaze.  To make matters worse, the tattoo had angry red marks surrounding it, making it raise her skin, making it look as if it might break open at any moment.  He was scared for her.  Scared for what this thing was doing to her.

He looked into her green eyes, wide open.  The make up surrounding them was spotty, as if it had not been done in several days.  She looked as if she had lost a bit of weight, and it make the dark spots beneath her eyes just a little bit more prominent.  The closer he seemed to get, the worse she seemed to get.

No longer did he wonder why he bothered with her when they weren’t having sex.  No, rather, he felt a certain duty to her.  As if he had to protect her from something, save her from something.  Perhaps the morphing black tattoo she could not explain.  Perhaps from herself.  He worried about her thin frame when they were around each other.

He never imagined he would feel this much duty towards a person.

From time to time, he still felt old pieces of himself.  But they were foreign to him.  Whenever he would go out with friends to smoke pot or to get drunk, he felt himself constantly missing her.  It was a weird feeling to have, to feel as if he were missing a part of himself.  And he didn’t know if he liked it or not.

#

“You need to get it looked at.  I’m worried about it.  About you.”

“I’m fine.”

Today the tattoo was smaller, a long line of stitches covering the space over her heart.  It was raised off of the skin, oozing, and festering. 

He had to tell her.

He had been denying the feeling to himself for so long.  All these long years, watching the tattoo morph, he had denied himself.

“Do you want to know what it means?” she asked.  He nodded.  “Then say it.”

“I’m in love with you.”

Slowly, a tear falling down from her cheek, she took his hand in hers and placed it over the tattoo, over the stitches, over her heart.

Where he should have felt a steady thump, there was nothing.

She was empty.

Kaleidoscope Sky

I didn't want to write this. I had to write this. 

Everyone tries to tell you that they understand what you're going through. That they went through something like it, that they knew someone who was the same as you, or whatever.

But here's the first fact of life: No one ever knows what you're going through.

No one.

Not even people who have experienced the exact same thing as you have. Even they don't understand for the simple fact that they are different people than you. And they never will be able to truly understand because no one, not even identical twins, process information in the exact same way.

We are all different. We are all individuals. No two of us are alike.

At least that's what they tell us, right?

I remember when I first stopped believing in God.

Up until that point, I had done my due diligence in a religious town with a religious set of parents. I had tried everything I could to believe. I had gone to church each weekend, said a prayer before eating my evening meal, and had prayed for my grandmother as she lay on her death bed. In fact, this last event had made a believer, back in the late fall of 2007 when her organs slowly began killing themselves, one by one by one. I made a vow to be a good person for the rest of my days so long as she was allowed to live. I prayed and prayed and prayed, and the next morning, everything stopped, and she woke up. She was still a vegetable, but she was alive.

God was so good.

He gave me a great life, with great friends. I loved my family. I loved my school. I loved being in theatre. And I gave it my all, despite everything that went against it. I did not resent my family for resenting my passion. I did not resent my friends for going farther than I ever could. I smiled and kept going on. I was a good person. And God was good.

August 24, 2008. That's the day I stopped believing. The morning before, I had woken up to a voicemail from my best friend who'd been having some mental health issues. The voice mail was four seconds long, but it haunts me still to this day.

Pure silence.

If four white walls in a sterile room could make a noise, that's what it would sound like.

Four seconds of this.

And that was it.

She would not answer her phone all day. Her mother would not answer her phone all day. No one knew where she was. I didn't think much of it. She was often in hospital visits for hours on end.

The next afternoon, my mom sat me down on the couch. And she told me the terrible truth. My best friend was no longer around. That morning, she had taken too many pills. And she was gone.

And all I had left of her were those four seconds of sterile silence.

I couldn't understand. I had been a good person. I had sacrificed so much of myself to her over the past year with her health issues, and had made sure to always be there for her. And yet she was gone. Everything I had done, was for absolutely nothing. It was as if I didn't even matter.

She was dead.

So was God.

But no one prepares you for that pain. And no one tells you that it will last years longer than you had ever dreamed.

If I could describe the feeling of depression, the best one I could come up with would be this: It's like laying in your bed in your room, with the large window wide open. But you're turned away from it, and instead staring at the world outside through a large mirror. It is the perfect reflection of the world that goes on outside of your door, but it is only that. A reflection. Backwards. And you are in your room staring at the window on the wall showing you the life that you are unable to lead. And all you want is to turn around, and open that door, and join in. But you're shackled down.

That's what it feels like. At least to me.

But the thing about depression is that it's not always there. There would be times, years on end, when I would be outside the door, enjoying life for all that it was. But the other part about depression, is that sometimes, when you're least expecting it, you go lie down on your bed, turn around, and stare at the mirror again. Back and forth. For years on end, it doesn't end.

But I'm not one to break a promise. I still had to be a good person. That motto got me through the rest of my days. The thought that maybe if I continued to be a good person, give all of myself to the people around me, that maybe, just maybe, I would be enough. That life would grant me an award.

If I tried hard enough, one day my selflessness would give me what I truly desired from the world. An end to the nights in my bedroom, crying as I stared at the window.

And so I gave everything I could to those around me.

I loved with more than my whole heart. Most would say that that's impossible, but I just about went into debt as I maxed out the amount of love in my heart, always giving more and more. More to my friends. More to my family. More to the people and the things that mattered to me. I spent many nights sleepless throughout the rest of high school because I was busy giving so much, trying so hard for the people around me. This girl was having problems in school so I would do everything to help her. These friends in a relationship were struggling, so I did everything I could to keep them together because only I could see what they were truly meant to be. I had friends in three different groups in school, none of whom associated with one another, and so I would spend my forty-minute long lunch breaks walking from one group to another, checking up on each of them, giving all of myself that I could for that ten minute period before I had to go check up on the next one.

That mirrored room threatened to drag me under for so much of those two years. And no one even knew. Not my parents. Not my friends. No one asked or cared enough to figure out why sometimes I just couldn't be around people. No one called to ask me how I was. I doubt that even my closest friend had any idea how close I got to drowning myself in the bathtub on more than one occasion from the years of 2008-2011, or could see the faint scars on my legs and arms that have faded with age and cream. I gave everything I could for the people around  in the hopes that one of them would give something to me. Selfish and selfless, all at once. The living anomaly.

Sometimes I would get a few thank you's. Rarely. Once in a while someone told me that they appreciated what I had done. That occurrence was even more rare. But never someone asking me how I was.

In early 2011, I felt myself waking up and spending the majority of my time outside of that mirrored room. I was happy with life, with my job, and my friends, and with the new college I would be transferring to in the Fall. Everything, for once, was going completely right. But what was the real reward?

In the first weeks of April, my father came home telling me that he had been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. Within four months, he was gone. If God hadn't been dead to me already by that point, he sure as hell would have by then.

Less than two weeks after my father passed away, I was moving to Southern California to try and start a new life at a new school. The majority of days were spent in my literal bed, in my dorm room, hearing the raving college life going on outside of my window. Some nights, when my pot head roommate would leave the window open as she went out to her newest rave, I would stare at the sky as I sat in my bed, and saw it move before me, in a kaleidoscope of colors.

But I persevered. I gave everything I ever could over the years that followed. Loved my friends so much that I sacrificed them over myself. Would stay up late with them, help them through their problems, and pay my own price for it the next day. Whenever encountered with the opportunity, I gave all of my heart to someone who I thought had been deemed worthy of it.

And time after time I paid the price.

Time after time, I told myself that I needed to stop giving my heart in such a way. Of giving so much of myself. But how does one change who they are?

All I've ever wanted to do was make a difference in the world. Back in the eighth grade, back when I first started writing, and I read The Diary of Anne Frank, I knew that I had to be as great as Anne had been. That I had to be as selfless, and that the one thing I needed to do was make a difference in the world.

It's difficult to decide what kind of a difference I would chose to make. Surely, I would be no one near as great as Anne. She changed the world for years and years to come. But I wanted to change at least one person's life.  I wanted to be enough for at least one person. It's a difficult thing to describe. My goal, should I continue on the desire to become a novelist, is that I should publish something that change the world, either to a whole group of people, or to one person. I want to write something that would inspire people like me to want to be a better person, who also wants to make the world a different place and so on and so forth.

It's hard to keep up this goal when faced with such a selfish world.

Time after time, I give up so much of myself that often I forget who I am. It's true, I don't have much going on for myself. An attitude, humor, and a heart. And I'll give it all up to anyone who I cross paths with.

What else is there to me?

Nothing worth bothering about.

Apparently.

The world has no time for people like me. It chews us up, swallows us whole, and then spits us back up. People will take anything from you that they can get.

They will take your attitude, tell you that everything about it is wrong and that you need to change. "You're too negative, the world is so much brighter than you want it to believe."

They'll take away your sense of humor, tell you that you're hilarious, but it's not appropriate. "You're too cryptic, it's too negative, it's too dirty. Keep pretending to be something that you're not."

And then they'll take the last thing you have, your own heart. "You give it up too easily, guard it with all you have. What's wrong with you, why do you refuse to let people in?"

What am I left with after the whole world has taken everything that I have? Who am I without any of this? Who was I to begin with?

People often wonder why I hate people. Why I don't trust the world around me. But it's as they're all selfishly taking pieces of me, telling me that I'm wrong, that I need to change. That I need to pretend to fit into this little box of expectations of me that they have and that's the only way that I'll be happy. That if I pretend long enough, then my smile will become permanent and I'll have no worries for the rest of the day.

They just don't understand.

I hate the world because I give so much of myself to the world around me, and yet it continues to disappoint me. The world continues to force me into the box that is the mirrored window room, shackled down to the bed. And all I want is to be released from this box. All I want is for someone to show me that they're not like the rest of the goddamn selfish world.

Because I may not know what I am, but I know what I am not. I am not selfish.

I cannot think of one instance where I have ever done anything solely for me. I can't even make decisions on what movie to go see, because I think of what if the people around me want to do something different. I've been miserable on my own birthday because the people who are around to celebrate with me have obviously been forced to do so, out of guilt for me doing the same to them, as I'll go to them whenever and for whatever they could possibly desire.

I am not selfish, and yet the world treats me as if I were such. It denies me the few things I desire in this world. And I take it. I let the world give me it's best shot, and I persevere, still trying to be a good person in the world, still giving everything I have to the people around me. Someday, I will find someone like me, I promise myself.

There has to be someone out there who understands me.

Anyone out there who understands me at all.

I know deep down that I am all alone. The problem is with people like me is that we put on a face and pretend to be people that we aren't. We blend into society, and it's easy to look ourselves over, glance past them, even though they understand us completely. What would it be like if two of these people were to encounter each other and see the other for who they really are? The two most selfless people in the entire world.

It might collapse, I feel. If the two most selfless people in the world were the only two people in the room, they would be forcing themselves upon the other, trying to help them in any way that they can. Except, that's where the problem would arise. One of them would be forced to be selfish, but because of that, they would be denying it, try to force the other to be selfish. The world would implode, because the selfless people would be forced to be selfish, and then maybe, just maybe, the world might continue as normal, but one of them would be left alone because the other would give in.

And then that selfless person would be left alone again. I might be left alone again.

It's amazing how much the threat of a mirrored room will keep me going. It's amazing how much my own guilt will keep me going too.

The thought that if I stop being positive for even a minute, my whole world is condemned. The fact that I'm sorry not only for sharing my feelings, but for having any at all. Selfless people have feelings too. I have feelings.

I wish that all this time when I would comfort those around me had even bothered to ask me what my feelings were. And for all the times that they had, I wish I hadn't felt so guilty for wanting to share them. And so I push them down, because I don't want anyone else in the whole world to feel even one-tenth of what I feel.

It would simply be too much.

And so I hide them, and I hide myself.

It's true what they say, sometimes you can give so much of yourself that you don't know who you are at the end of the day. The me that I know is the person who gives so much of themselves. And I'm ok with that. I would much rather be a selfless person and give every ounce of me that I possibly could, even if the world is a terribly selfish place. I can take it. I'd rather take the pain than see anyone in the world I know go through something similar.

And so I wait in fear of the mirrored room. I live in fear of being shackled down to my bed once again. I live in fear of having no one at my funeral. I live in fear of dying alone. I live in fear of living life for myself.

Because I do not live for myself. I live for those around me.

Lately, I've come to the conclusions that maybe that has to change. That maybe I should spend some time trying to figure out who I am, rather than trying to change the world, one person at a time. Perhaps that I should try and not be a liar every day of my life, and start to show my emotions, and become selfish. That's asking a lot from me. In part because that involves changing every thing about me that I have ever known. But also because it requires me to face myself.

And in this time, I've attempted to find something close to religion. Perhaps what I need to do is find God again. All these years I've still been praying, but rather than to anything in particular, I pray to my Dad. I've been praying that my dad will help me through these times, and make everything work out for me in the end. If there's anything I've ever aspired to be more than to be a person that makes a difference, it's to be as selfless and as forgiving as my father.

And that's something about me that you'll never know unless you ask. Because when people say that they understand, they never truly understand. They'll never know that the grief of my life has turned me from religion to family, and to be a selfless person in a selfish world. No two people are alike.

I am as changing as the kaleidoscope colors of the sky.

A Spot

*In one of my writing classes, my professor made us imagine that we had a spot somewhere in our chests. She asked us to explain not just the spot, but what surrounds in, in a page long project. Some did some metaphysical things, but it was meant to be personal and this was as personal as I could seem to make it. So yeah.

   I don't have just a spot anymore, I have a gaping hole. There is a gaping hold without an exit wound. There is a gaping hole without an entrance wound.

   They've tried to stitch it up. Many have tried. Many have failed. Some have come along with their needle and thread and just as soon as the hole starts to close, they make another tear. The hole comes back, only wider than before. Frayed.

   It's festering. The hole is festering, making itself wider and wider with each passing day. At first it was small, so small a doctor could not see it with an x-ray when I first complained.

   There is no visible wound, but there is a festering hole growing larger the more perfectionist "practitioners" attempt to fix it.

   They say I'm angry because I am Irish. Because I have red hair. Because I am short. But really it's the pain of a hole growing so large I feel as if I might implode that makes me angry. A hole no one sees. No one believes. No one else has. And it makes me bitter. I am alone with a hole and it makes me bitter. It is the lack of feeling that I feel the most.

   I don't complain anymore. It keeps them away so they do not try to fix my hole with needle and thread, but only tear at it instead. I don't complain and I pretend it does not exist. They believe me. If you cannot see the wound then the hole must not exist. My chest compromises of smooth, soft skin, of lungs, of a sternum, of a pulsating red mass. And a hole that does not exist.

  Is it natural?

  Does everyone cover their hole with skin and deny it's existence to the world?

  Does everyone feel this way, is if about to implode form a self-torn disease?

  Or is it just me?

  Destined to live alone, bitter, and denying the very existence of my core self?

On the Count of Four

I'm in a sort of state of shock.

But that's no matter.

It's the fact. I'm in a sort of state of shock right now and I can't seem to be able to explain why. Let's just say that the past 72 hours have been emotionally straining, culminating in a phone call this afternoon. Let's go with that.

I'm in a sort of state of shock in which I can't figure out where I'm supposed to go.

I've been noticing something lately about my friends. They've all been moving up in their lives, getting married, engaged, graduating college, getting new jobs, moving to new cities, having children, being promoted. And for some strange reason, I seem to be stuck.

There are a few things I'm aiming for in my life right now.

First, is to make it through school without failing or getting so stressed I drop out.

Second, is to get promoted at work so I feel like my true talents are being put to use.

Third is to fall in love.

And fourth is to start feeling like I actually have a glimpse of a future.

I feel so stuck, because there are things, something, that seem to be holding me back. I'm watching all these people move on with their lives, and I can't do a damn thing about it. It's truly frustrating me.

On the first count, I'm doing somewhat successful. I just want to graduate. Unfortunately, I've a few things in my way right now, such as a math class I  can't pass, and a whole other year in my future. All my friends save four or five are graduating in a mere 55 days. No such luck for me.

On the second count, I have reasons that are holding me back. Things that are really out of my control but I'm trying to take charge and push through. But despite my efforts, I feel as if my screams are becoming all for naught.

Third is a thing I've been trying. Seriously trying. And every time I think I might find a glimmer of light, something unfortunate happens. It happened again only recently. And it frustrates me because I feel as if I can't catch a break. That all of my friends are happy in their significant relationships, and I'm a long string of bad decisions and "in another life"'s. And as sad as it sound, for me this directly correlates to the fourth.

I keep seeing my friends move on into their future. Within a short period of time, I took giant leaps and experienced things that no one at my age should be forced to experience on their own. As a result, I feel as if I should at least be 5 years older than I actually am. I feel as if I'm 10 years older than I am. I feel as if I should have my future out because I'm a 30 year old, acting as if I'm 25 but in reality I'm only 20. I've got nothing, and such a large life ahead of me that I shouldn't be worrying quite yet.

But that doesn't stop me.

I keep seeing the significant people in my life make all of these worthwhile decisions, such as traveling out of the country and moving out of the state on a week's notice...and I can't help but wish I could be one of those people. I wish I could feel as if I have little to no responsibility to weight and tie me down.

It's funny because I spent 18 years of my life trying to void myself of all ties that would bind me, and as soon as I moved and got my job, I wound up getting attached.

I hate being attached.

For once in my life, I wish I had no responsibility. I wish that I could simply move from place to place, that I didn't have a job and a lease to tie me here. I want to leave the country. I want to go back home.

But I can't.

And I see all these people who are doing this, who are leaving me in order to move along. And I just want to shout to them "Stop! Please! Don't do this! Don't leave me here! Can't I convince you to stay?"

But I can't do that to them. I can't find it in my heart to ask anyone to stay in my life for just once. I can't find it in my heart because I feel as if they potentially have a fate and a future that lies outside of my own, and for me to take that away from them would be selfish.

I wish I could convince them to stay, but I can't take away their possibilities. As much as it kills me.

I just want to stop feeling so old. I wish I could let go for once, get rid of the ties that bind, and for once in my life, learn how to live. Learn how to speak to people and speak my mind. Simply learning to let go and fly.

A wise man tonight told me that if I fix one thing in my life, that it could potentially fix many other things.

If I could fix one thing in my life, what would it be? What could it be? What could be the one thing to fix that would help in all the other areas of my life that severely need help?

I need to learn to let go.

To let go and fly.

1...

2...

3...

Go.

Waking Up

I was pulling out of my parking spot at my apartment the other day, just like I have been doing at least once a day for the past ten months.

Ten months.

I don't know why this time it was so different. But all of a sudden I realized that I was pulling out in MY car, from MY parking spot, at MY apartment where I have been living, paying rent all on my own for the past ten months, the second place I've lived at on my own since I moved by myself to California.

It was like all of a sudden I came to this realization, as if I'd only been going through the motions until then.

I've been having these moments a lot over the past few years.

Moments where I suddenly just have this moment of clarity, when I finally realize that all I've been doing is going through the motions of living. I haven't been truly living until that one solitary moment when I realize that what I'm doing is an excuse for what we call life.

I pass through the days, not making much note of anything. It's become routine. Wake up after a restless night's sleep, go to school, study, go to class, go home, go to work, press buttons or direct traffic, go home, shower, spend some time on the internet before I attempt to sleep for the night. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Each day is the same lately. The same things happen, day in and day out. The moments that stick out are the moments that break me from the ordinary. I will remember yesterday because I had to run across Disneyland to change from a Fantasmic costume to a Haunted Mansion costume, a side-effect of working for the Happiest Place on Earth. It was hot outside, my make up had all run off by the time I got to costuming, where I had to fight with them to let me take my costumes out.

I remember that.

It was different from the millions of times where I've simply arrived at work in the correct costume, with no need to worry because I'd be working my scheduled shift. Simple.

Yesterday, for a brief moment, I lived. Even if just for a moment.

It used to be when I had these feelings, where I finally, for a moment, realize what's actually happening in my life, that I would remind myself that I am an actual citizen of Earth. I'm an actual living, breathing creation who moves and creates a life on their own.

I'm alive.

Lately, it's changed, to me being immovable, going through the simplistic things in life, without putting much thought or action into what I say or do, knowing full well that no matter what, I cannot change my fate, I cannot change what's going to happen. Despite my best attempts, I might not be able to change a damn thing because my life is this constant string of unimportant happenings and I am damned to face my fate. These moments are just a brief reminder in time that there is so much I could be capable of...if only I were able to live.

From alive to barely breathing.

These moments are fantastic in a way. To remind me of all the things I'm doing, of all the things I'm capable of. Maybe. Someday. If I try hard enough.

Each time I feel it, I feel as if I'm waking up from a long period of sleep, only to bat my eyelids, examine that it's still too early and my alarm won't go off for a few hours yet. And just like that, I'll fall asleep again.

These moments are the brief reminders that I will be forced to wake up soon.

I barely remember what being awake feels like. In the past few months, I've been in a state of shock for I had had a decent amount of time where I felt alive. Where everyday was an adventure, and I couldn't wait to wake up each morning and see what it was that I could accomplish. That was a great feeling to have.

Since it ended, it's like I permanently put myself to a state of waking unconsciousness.

It started with me not being able to sleep on my own. I averaged 20 minutes of good rest each night, if that. I spent my days a walking zombie, going through the actions. Unable to forget the feeling of being alive that I had had in my grasp, that I had played with and taken for granted. It soon went from that, to being used to the feeling of going around without a sense of life.

I forgot what it felt like to be awake.

Lately, I've been realizing this. I was looking for lipstick the other day, when suddenly I realized it was in the bag that I had taken out with us one night, and when I had gotten home that night, I placed it on my counter. In all the time that has passed, it hadn't moved.

It's like I've been stuck since that day.

But everything inside of me is trying to scream and yell at me to wake up. Slowly, but surely, I'm waking up. That moment in the car was the first of many. The moment where I realized that here I actually am, alive and breathing and moving and operating 2 ton moving vehicles with nothing more than 8 fingers and five toes. The moment where I found my lipstick right where I'd left it all those months ago. That moment where I ran from one side of Disneyland to the other and back again.

They're all moments begging me to wake up.

Right now, it's too early in the morning. I'm batting my eyes, glancing at my clock, and rolling back over to go back to sleep.

But soon my alarm will go off. Soon, I will feel as if the world is mine once more.

I'm beginning to wake up again.

I'm going to live.

Learning is Everywhere

Learning is everywhere.

That’s the campy idea behind going to a sort of prestigious university. While on their hour-long tours, which is often the make or break point for many high school Juniors or Seniors on whether or not they chose to attend the university, they promote this idea from the moment they leave the Visitor’s Lounge. Learning is everywhere you go.

Look at this student union. See them studying? Learning is everywhere.

Look at this building that’s over a hundred years old. Student’s classrooms are in there. Learning is everywhere.

Look at these state of the art housing options. See how they have multiple lounges which include television and study spaces? Learning is everywhere.

Look at this fountain. See the students surrounding it, enraptured in their intelligent conversations with their classmates as they sunbathe? Learning is everywhere.

Learning. Is. Everywhere.

Each day I sit by the fountain in front of the library at Chapman University. Each day I watch the guided tours, sometimes with five potentials and their parents, sometimes with forty-five potentials and their entire family. Each day they walk past the fountain, speaking about the library, the Argyros Business School (which is what many of the Asian’s only interest is), and the five pillars of education of Chapman (or whatever the symbolic statement actually is, as it is never mentioned again after the first day of orientation). They walk through the fountain on their tours everyday, examining the learning that is occurring everywhere.

Sometimes the students look bored out of their minds. Usually those are the ones who wind up at the local community college or perhaps a state school. Others look truly intrigued. Some continuously ask questions about Greek life so that they will be able to forget the fact that they’re in a somewhat prestigious university. Others ask about study abroad options, already looking for a way out. The younger siblings shout about wanting to go to Disneyland soon as soon as the tour guide reaches the part of the tour where the statue of Chapman himself is supposedly facing the general direction of the theme park only 6.2 miles away. Little do the parents realize that Disney is a social way of life here, and if they send their child to Chapman, they might as well buy them an annual pass because that’s where they’ll spend most of their time (even if they should be in class).

Learning is everywhere?

The fountain is almost as good as a place as Disneyland to sit and watch people. Not just the frustrated teenagers that walk by on tours, but those who actually made it past the tour and onto campus for the next four to seven years of their life.

How did any of us end up here?

I remembered my own tour of Chapman, already knowing that I wanted to go to school here, not only because of its Creative Writing program (something of which I balk at now) but also because of it’s close proximity to the Most Magical Place on Earth. Let’s be honest here. I remembered walking down the AF Walkway, towards the theatre and music school, and looking down the street, and seeing how absolutely quaint it was. I could imagine myself renting out one of the houses down the street, and studying under the large oak tree.

Learning is everywhere.

The more I look around the fountain in front of the library, the more I laugh about my final decision to come to Chapman in the first place. True, out of all the other schools that I applied to (and technically attended in many cases), Chapman felt the most like home. But I laugh at the reasons for which I came in the first place. Back when I thought California was where I was meant to be. Back when I thought I was going to be the most studious thing in the world and maintain my 4.0 average. Back before I learned how nearly impossible it is to live on your own in the state of California, when you have no support from your family, and spend more time working your slightly-above-minimum-wage job at Disneyland than you do hitting the books. Back before I learned that this might not be what I want to do with my life after all.

Learning is everywhere.

I look around the fountain at Chapman and see the other students and I question how any of us ended up here. Were any of them actually happy with their decision to come here (other than the students at Dodge whom, for some reason or other were always an exception)? I can look around the fountain and see so many students, wearing the Greek letters, talking about how drunk they got at the last fraternity party, or their plans for the upcoming weekend.

Is this what we’ve come to?

Learning is everywhere?

Around the fountain, there are students everywhere. Sometimes photographers come and take pictures of us, or of their models standing barefoot in the shallow side of the fountain. Sometimes they’re reading some smartly bound book, looking inquisitive. If they’re graduating, they’re overjoyed for the end of their learning.

Students sit with their laptops open to Facebook, Tumblr, Reddit, Twitter…anything where they can discover more about the world outside of themselves. Learning is everywhere. Even if learning is discovering that the guy they think is hot in their Friday afternoon class is Single. They spend hours on their laptops, complaining all the while that they have so much homework to do and there’s no way they can finish it in time, as they click “Attend” to that night’s rage.

They sit in circles on the stone walls that jut out awkwardly every ten or so feet surrounding the fountain, gossiping about their friends. Some catch friends from last semester up on their lives since they had last seen one another. At such a sort of prestigious university, connections are always being made, and it’s easy to forget or move on from the people that you shared such a connection with in last semester’s Introduction to Analytics course.

The tours traverse their way through campus, and across the fountain, dodging in and out of bikers and skateboarders, telling facts about the sort of prestigious university to only half interested high school students. I could tell them the real facts about life out here, I think. If they don’t have a mommy and daddy to anchor them down, I can give them all the best tips and tricks for surviving in the society of the upper middle class white kids of Chapman University. They might not learn about the school, but they’ll certainly receive an education. Which is what we’re here for, right? Education?

Learning is everywhere after all.

Passenger

"I don't want to be your friend anymore."

I was 5. In Kindergarten at the school down the street. One of my closest friends, I think her name started with a T, just relayed this information to me.

God, kids can be harsh.

Luckily, just as my eyes were welling with tears, my dad pulled up to the school's drive and I managed to run into his car before they let loose. He knew what was wrong, and immediately he drove in the opposite direction of home. We traveled down Power Road until it left the city, and turned into a wildlife reserve, trailing around the Salt Lake.

We drove and we talked about things that weren't bothering us. And I forgot all about the girl who's name might have started with T.

"Everything will be ok," he told me.

It was another day, when I was 13, stressing about my life in Junior High. I'd gotten out of school early, he did not have to work. But neither of us felt like going home. And so we drove, this time down Brown, up the mountain, talking as we curved up the winding paths.

Age 16 and in High School. It was a Saturday, and only a week before, we'd gotten a foreign exchange student. The two of us didn't quite click at first. And so my dad took us on a drive, far up north, to a lake we'd gone to when I was 4 when we had gone camping. We walked along the water's edge, and then made the drive back down the mountains, and we started singing Disney songs. My dad and I in English, my then-on sister in French.

Age 18 and my dad was going to drive me to California, to college at Chapman University. I was to be the first person in the family to ever earn a Bachelor's degree. He was so proud of me.

That was a drive we never got to make.

I spent a lot of time in the car with my dad.

He took me to all the places I know. Everything from picking me up from school and driving me home, to my first ever job, out to Phoenix, to Disneyland all those times, up to the mountains, across the country to North Carolina and Florida, both times to San Francisco. He was the one who taught me how to drive. All the time I spent with my dad in the car, was all the time we got to know one another. Many times, in the early morning drives to Las Vegas, he and I would be the only ones awake in the car, and we'd spend the few precious hours speaking quietly, getting to know one another. We told each other our biggest secrets in the car. He learned about the first boy I ever fell in love with on a drive, and he told me the story of how he failed college Algebra three times when he was younger.

After the drives stopped, it never quite hit me why I had the strange urges to get on the freeway and simply drive. I never quite understood why the idea of a commute never bothered me. Or why I had the desire to explore the hill past the Target on Meats, to learn as much as I could about my new surroundings.

I never understood this feeling, until I realized that my fondest memories of my childhood took place on the road, in a car. My dad introduced me to the world as I sat in the passenger seat. It was a world that I hungered to know.

Now I sit in the driver's seat, driving myself too and fro in a strange city, far away from home. But I don't mind.

I miss my dad a lot lately. I miss the way when we would drive, how he'd put his hand on mine and smile at me. I miss his cough, and his sneeze which scared everyone each time it happened. I miss how we'd always go to the movies, miss the way he and I challenged each other to be our better selves. I miss when he would bring home flowers for my mom, miss the way he and I could make up shit that anyone could believe because we were that good. If our relationship were literature, he would be Mr. Bennet and I would be Elizabeth.

I miss the drives, when I was able to sit in the passenger side. I miss being a passenger as my dad helped lead me, not only down the road, but through life.

I'm 20 now. Twenty years old, which means I've been street legal for four years. One-fifth of my life. For two of those years, I've been driving myself, unguided, and not knowing where to go, only relying on the tips my dad gave me so long ago. I don't want to be the driver forever. I want to switch off and on, from passenger to driver.

And, eventually, there will come a day when I will be driving someone through their life as well. Someday there might be someone, who's name may begin with T, and I'll be the one driving down the road, out of the city and into the wildlife reserve, as we talk about all the things that don't bother us. And I'll be the one to say "everything will be ok".

And that scares me. I have a lot to compete with.

Despite the accidents, being in the car makes me feel as if nothing can go wrong. As long as I'm in the car, I'm going to be ok. No matter if it's a drive back home where I'm crying because my heart was broken, no matter if someone's decided they don't want to be my friend anymore, no matter if it's a 6 hour drive just to go home and see where my dad now rests in peace, nothing was going to go wrong.

"Everything will be ok."