The Thirst.

When did dating become an online, step-by-step, anonymous game? Facebook adds come first, then after some online chatting, you exchange numbers, then….. the first text. What on earth happened to conversation? I know in today’s time, cell phones are the new and most modern way to communicate, but phone calls are so extinct it surprises someone when it happens. Do you facebook creep to make sure they are not creeps? Or does that make you one already…

Is liking pictures and statuses the new form of flirting? Are emojis the new way to convey emotion through conversation? Does know one like asking someone for a date in person?


It Was Never A Mystery.

Theres a mysterious box next my bed when I wake up in the morning. Attached to the box is a note that reads “Open me, if you dare.” Do I open it?

Of course I do. I can’t resist an open invitation that dares me to unveil a secret. What’s inside of it? My heart is racing thinking of all the possible, scary things that could be inside. I would expect it would be something that would make me face my deepest fear. Something that will challenge me to overcome an obstacle I have been facing my entire life. Something magnificent that only comes once in a lifetime. What’s inside the box?

I set the inviting note aside. I undo the ribbon. I lift the lid off the box carefully and see this grand little gift waiting inside for me to find it. It’s not just one item. It’s 3. One thin silver piece of glass, a small stack of delicate, almost sheer sheets, and long, slender rod the size of my hand. A mirror, paper, and pen.

This is my grand, mysterious gift. What am I supposed to do with this? I know exactly what. I should just put them back in the box. I can do this any time, any day. Why today? Why is there enough paper to last me the rest of my life?

Because it’s going to take me the rest of my life to look in this little mirror and write myself a note saying I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry, because I said all those mean things to you when I was younger. I’m Sorry because sometimes I still say those mean things when I don’t feel so great, and I think putting you down is a good idea. I’m Sorry because I let other people treat you horribly when you didn’t deserve it. I’m Sorry because I thought you were ugly, and told you, while looking you straight in the eye. I’m Sorry for not loving you the way others have. And I’m sorry for loving you the same way others have. I’m Sorry for telling you that you are not good enough for anyone to love, and that you should kill yourself. I’m Sorry for making you think you were a burden to your family. I’m Sorry for giving you a hard time when you were only trying your best. I’m Sorry for not believing in you when you needed someone to. I’m Sorry for still doing some of these things today, when I know you are not deserving of this. I’m Sorry for withholding love from you.

The problem is there isn’t enough paper in this box to write you all the I’m Sorrys that you need to hear. And I’m Sorry for that, too. There are enough I’m Sorrys to last me a lifetime and a half. Am I supposed to write each one and read this to you? I won’t be able to look into this little mirror and look you straight in the eye while I say these apologies that should have been made a long time ago. Or should I leave this box alone? It’s no longer a mystery what I have to do. I just have to love you. That’s all I’ve always had to do. That’s all you ever wanted from me.

Tutu & Bun Ready.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Twilight Zone.”

My friend is an aspiring photographer. I’m an experienced but not very well trained dancer. We decided to put our passions together  by having a photo shoot, with another friend also a photographer, in the city during the late hours of the night. It’d be cold, and I’d be half dressed, but this sounded like a dream. And it was.

It felt like I was being followed by the paparazzi. I danced and posed not because I was a real ballerina, but because I felt like one. Standing in these beautiful parts of the city with a tutu & bun ready to be photographed, everyone thought I was a real dancer. I believed it, too.

Each photo captured looked like it had been come from a magazine advertising the streets or my long sheer tutu. I couldn’t feel the cold (most of the time). I wasn’t tired; I could have danced until sunrise. I could have walked home on my toes. These talented photographers captured what I felt, not what I thought I saw in the mirror. I looked, and felt, like a real ballerina. It was surreal.

An even stranger danger.

Why am I more confident in front of strangers? Is anonymity the answer? Do I really care about what the people that know me think? Am I playing a role in front of the strangers or the people I know?
I’m starting to think of the F word that I hate so much, but I don’t think fake is the word.

Why do I like the idea of moving away to somewhere far, just for a while, where I can meet new people. Is it a fantasy because it is not permanent? What if I just enjoy establishing new relationships? Meeting new people? Do I think I can establish a new identity because I’m starting fresh? Am I trying to “find myself”? Still…?

I’m old at 21.

People say “I’m old” all the time. They could be over 55, or younger than someone not even old enough to get into the bars. If age doesn’t determine what is “old”, then am I old already? I’m 21 and so young. And sometimes so “old.” I don’t want to party 3 nights in a row anymore; two is enough. I’m fine with sitting at home, reading a book. Drinking tea at the coffee shop. Writing a thank you note instead of texting my friend a quick thanks. I listen to Billie Holiday with my doors closed, louder than my singing. I’d rather write than type out my letters. I write letters. With my hand. I’m old to the young ones.

And I’m so young. I haven’t seen the world. I haven’t had my heart broken. I haven’t gone through a horrible struggle that has helped me gain deep insight and wisdom. I’m far from wise.

I’m not old at 21. This is my peak. I’m at a perfect turning point where I’m old enough to act like a young person, and young enough to get away with it. At this point, I’m so focused on the one thing that will be here quicker than I can get my life together. Graduation is going to kick me out the door, hand me my suitcase, and few dollars to buy myself some courage so I can be a big girl and get a job. Does this mean I’m old? Grad school means I’m a big girl with other big girls, that have no problem being old. This is scary.

And at the same time, I’m so scared of the big girl, the “old” girl, that is going to kick butt and leave a mark where I want to leave one. She’s not only old, but she’s wise. She likes to make appearances here and there when I’m given a challenge, but what happens when she’s here for good? Will that make me old?