The way you do it.

There was no way it should be done. All my life I believed in the expected's, and the typical's, and the supposed to's. I sought out plot lines mirroring that of stories with happy endings I had seen unfold before me, and mimicked the habits of those who seemed to arrive at satisfaction before I had a chance to even look at a map. It appeared to make sense at the time. I tiptoed around the mistakes I could see myself making, and covertly maneuvered around any crack, fork, or obstacle in the road. It felt safe. It felt good. It felt like what I should do. 

It started out as a guideline to abide by, a structure to follow until I created my own framework for trusting myself, my system, and life as I coexist with it; the way I would do it. This ended in an addiction; an inherent need to stay close to the shore line and gaurenteed induced anxiety upon straying. I found myself no longer feeling safe. Or good. I found myself feeling scared. All the time. Rather than just referencing the should be's I had trusted in, I began to rely on them entirely. I leaned solely on the way my life should I be, and depended on its support to keep me afloat; to keep my story as close to the happy few I'd witnessed, and to keep my "way it should be done" enough. I was scared to divert from the should be, fail, and have nothing left.

But I wasn't a fool. A victim to my own mind yes, but a fool I was not.

It was not good. I was not safe. I knew I could not pretend anymore. I was not safe from making mistakes. I was either making other people's mistakes, or making the mistake of avoiding them altogether. I was either living someone else's life or not living at all and I was sad. It was not good. I was doing what I should be doing and it was not enough. And it was never going to be enough. It was not enough. I was either failing someone else or not failing at all. I was either loving in the name of someone else's ideas or not at all and ultimately, I found myself fearing what was supposed to be feared or not fearing at alI. I wasn't doing anything at all, and suddenly, I realized I wasn't there at all. I found myself impersonating what I'm not or choosing to be nothing at all and I was losing. I was losing. I was stuck between eternally failing and never giving myself a chance and it was dark.

That was until I gave up on should be.

I betrayed my trusty understanding of what is good and the rules and steps that go with it. I chose to write my own and to follow whichever side of the fork I felt was right. I bravely stepped on cracks, and appraoched obstacles and conquered them. While it was not easy nor a quick process, it was done. It lead me to a will be. It lead me to a way "this is how it will be done" and it grabbed my hand and ran with me. Far, far away from the could be's and should be's and the expected's and the typical's. I found my dependency evaporate and I could see myself. I was there again. And it was good. I finally reached a point I had admired in so many stories I had seen unfold before me. I felt the sweet satisfaction of doing something my own way, and achieving an enlightening happiness. I had reached what I had seen, and I needed no map, or guideline, or structure. I chose making a choice instead of being chosen for and it brought me every should be I could have ever wanted. I relished in my newfound abilities and felt the power it harnessed. I had chosen choice and I was happy. I wondered if onlookers would see my state and think, "that's the way it should be done." I suppose they will learn as everyone does.

There's no way it should be done.

There's only the way you do it, and it will always be good enough.

.K SG C.

It was loud.

It was loud.

I don't remember 

How.

I just know I learned

To give any space

A sound.

Voices reflected 

Off my ears

That space between our bodies 

Was all that I could hear

Do you realize when you do it?

Do you recognize that

Whenever you talk to me

I hear nothing that is said

I've fallen victim to the wickedness

The tone that you construe 

It rings out louder than any 

Words between me and you 

You radiate a darkness

That counteracts the light

I can see you trying to let show through 

Your manifested night

But in order to hold onto

The relationships you've built

You must utilize your kindness

Rather than trying to guilt.

Perhaps you just don't see it

Perhaps you like the feat

Of conquering your loved ones

And putting them beneath.

Unfortunate it is

This poison you emit

Even in the good words

I can taste arsnic

It's sprinkled in your attitude

And slipped into our mind 

I find myself collapsing

Into your venomous bind

Nothing is good enough

No thanks or gratitude

You find appreciation

By capitalizing on our debt to you

And just know that it hurts 

With every negative lapse

Our two steps towards you

Comes with six large steps back

You've become a monster

Destructive to those around

I really hope you're happy

I truly hope you're proud

You finally got what you wanted.

Our submission and our pride,

Talking back and engaging gone,

By our silence we abide 

And know when you apologize

And you detect our passiveness

Remember that's what you created

From making us feel less

I no longer hear you. 

No matter what it's about

I've been trained to make my silence

A thousand times more loud.

.K SG C.

What I fear most.

My eyes closed. It is dark now. I stay near the surface so I'm sure not to be swept under.

The light is no longer permitted in my room and the space now seems infinite. The lines and angles that traced the confines of my room disappeared and I lie in an allusion. I can feel my fears pour out into the space I created and the endlessness that followed it. The space's and the fear's. It was vast. It was looming. It was there, at the hand of my own imagination and being filled with the things in my own dungeons. 

I used to fear things. Tangible things. Things I could not think up, but things that I had heard, seen and remembered. Things in my mind but not of my mind. 

Now I fear both. I fear what this world is capable of creating and I fear more what I am capable of creating. I fear the love affair of the both. 

I once feared sounds. Unmarked, unexplainable sounds. Sounds created by this world. I once feared laying in my bed, amidst my own creation of desolately and darkness and hearing something. Perhaps something on the roof, a bug gnawing at the inside of a wall. A sound that I could not attach to a living thing. A sound created of the universe, with no opportunity of validation from me.

I stopped fearing things like that when you began to fill up the darkness I created. The grand empty. A lit path to every vulnerability I possess. I stopped fearing things like that when I began to see that the sounds that once scared me held no weight if not being created by one I know. One I care for. And one I need.

I began to fear things. Untangible things. Things I could not hear, or see, but merely speculate upon. Worry about. Fight against. Losing you in your darkness, or not being able to find you in mine. I began to fear your freewill, and your ability to walk away. I began to fear the things you made me see in myself that I had never been willing to look at. Something tangible on the outside, but only fixable on the inside. 

Moreso, I began to fear you being here. You falling in the darkness, and my arm not being long enough to reach you. The walls that surrounded my room once sturdy, suddenly obtained the ability to crash on you, and my swiftness not quick enough to save you. Your darkness so heavy, and my strength not trained enough to get you out from under it.

I fear it not being good enough. I feared not being good enough for you to be strong in your vastness, and me in mine. A nightmare I spent a brief time in felt eternal, and I was helpless. I feared this for you, because I know you need it. I fear it for me, because I need you.

I fear most that the difference I make will just not be good enough, and the darkness will swallow us both.

.K SG C.

Created: Thursday, January 30 2014 12:45:11 PM

It is approximately midnight as I am so reluctantly drawn away from my studying and to other things to preoccupy my mind.  I begin to stroll around my computer- history becomes more than just a tab in my toolbar and hitting the home button becomes more than a navigation back to the main screen of my device.  I find things- old things.  Things that I had saved in miscellaneous and strange places.  Places that in my intellectually wandering state, were appetizing.  Such odd places to keep things that had once been so important.  Perhaps I did this because I had written them in such a manic state or perhaps to subconsciously save myself the grief of easily attaining words that would quickly rehash the distraught sense of self I surely found in the lines I composed.  Aiding my own mind via avoidance of the torture I would face simply from pure accessibility brought comfort.  I had not bestowed misery upon myself, but spared myself instead.  I had been my own greatest crutch.  Gratefulness flooded.

"A million miles away" titles a word document icon that lingers on my desktop.
The top right.  I had never noticed it before.
Funny, I don't remember writing anything like that.
Curiosity and desperation to avoid testing material subdues me and I click.
Open.
I begin to read and am intrigued and slightly disappointed in the work I saw.  I could clearly see the young writer I had been as I fumbled to find words that would accurately describe the times.
Properties.
When did this occur? Why did I write this?
Time stamp.
Ah yes.
It all came back now, just as the version of myself that had been saving me from me had, more likely than not, predicted.
But what I found funny was that I did not fall, spiral, or dive back into the contents anymore.  I did not find myself tugging at the skin of my nails, nor seeking a way back into the twisted self I had been as I wrote these words.
I was disappointed with my work, not for what it represented, or the me I saw in it, but the bare quality of it.
A celebration ignited.
It was a movie I was not living anymore.
It was a ride I had so eagerly gotten off, and had no desire to be on anymore.  I had grown tired of the loops and spins it took and became far too accustomed to the misery I felt as it turned upside down and whipped me back and fourth.
I glanced into each letter with resilience and beamed at each word they created.  I saw the person I was in the title, the person I had become over the course of every line written, and saw me sitting there at the end.
If I had not been convinced over the last few months that I had truly grown apart from the person I saw sitting on that bed some eight odd months ago, writing such a silly titled poem, I was now.
Perhaps it was my hunger for dodging things of more relevant nature that brought me here with this stupid illusive document.  Perhaps I am experiencing a genuine inspiration. What is un-debatable is that I feel it is a duty to myself to post what I had found, as it was, without the edits I am itching to make.  It serves as a window into the past, and a testament to a bridge I had forever crossed and knew I would never return to.  More than anything, it serves as a reminder that we are an unbreakable species, armed with an untapped hope and cosmic capacity for experience.
The girl that sat upon her bed with the inability to title a damned piece of work at 12:45 pm on a Thursday no less, would undoubtedly be proud of the girl who sat upon her bed now at approximately midnight procrastinating intensely, searching through her archives fearlessly, no longer phased by what she found.

He was a million miles away.

Next to me, but in another place

To touch my arm

he had to stretch

Not from my side

But where he was instead.

I felt the lingering distance

From his heart to me,

Together in the room

But no proximity

He may have appeared happy

But I saw a stranger's smile,

How odd to face that look

From someone you've known a while.

He sometimes went to the window,

To look out and reflect

But I know when he looked out there,

A huge part of him left.

I couldn't tell if this was new,

Or if I just now took notice

But when he turned to me right then

The one thing I now know is,

I don't know where he goes to,

I don't know his escape,

But I knew wherever it was,

It was a million miles away.

Perhaps I've seen what I wanted

And ignored what I didn't

But right then I saw him

And what I thought he is, he isn't.

He sat back down and pat my knee,

With limpness and unfamiliarity

The way he turned, locked into my eyes,

It seems neither he could recognize

The face he'd seen and loved and knew

For it was mimicking his same look.

We sat a million miles away,

Even though our shoulders grazed.

My mind was ablaze, a fiery mess

But as I sat there, you'd never have guessed

I tried to put on a familiar face

To hide my inner gloom,

But as I did this I realized

Neither of us were in that room

How could I reach someone

Whose physical presence was here

But one whose mind and heart

I would never be permitted near

I knew what I had to do

I know what it meant

We were doomed to break each other

By our hearts that had grown vacant

Because you can fight for someone,

With them and about them,

But when all the dust settles,

You'll have no fight left to love them.

Its hard letting them go,

It'll feel harder to be apart

But it helps to remember

they weren't there from the start

So pick up your heart darling,

It's not that they don't care

Its just you can't give someone love

If they wont have it there.

No sense in hurting,

No sense in worrying

You'll let go in time

No sense in hurrying

And when he's gone,

His absence completed

You'll come to realize

Its just what you needed

So when he's really a million miles away

And you're alone in your room

You'll see he never felt farther

Than when he was next to you.

What you don't know.

I laid awake you know. 

You probably didn't know it, but I did.

I was tired, exhausted really, yet I lay there, denying myself the luxury of sleep. 

I lie there awake, for I knew no sleep would be as steady nor as peaceful as the kind I would undergo at the hand of your voice. 

So awake I stayed.

Clutching to the perhaps of you sedating me with your words.

It didn't feel like work you know. Staying awake. 

It did at first, simply because time seemed to entangle itself with my torturer- sleep. Time plotted with sleep, stretching out it's seconds and minutes while sleep simultaneously declared war on my body.

My defense was your perhaps; It was your maybe. It was the possibility that I could hold onto tonight long enough to get my dose of you before tomorrow rushed in.

I braced myself in my bed, yielding my armor of hope and anticipation.

It worked.

I lie there awake. 

Content with the heaviness on my eyelids and the haze in my head.

I laid there awake, because sleep without you is sleeplessness all the same.

.K SG C.

Home was.

Home was not where I walked through the door.

Home was where I stumbled into your arms, and rested my cheek against your neck.

Home was not where I came home after a trying day.

Home was the spot next to you where I sat, and relieved the shackles of too long a day spent.

Home was not in the daytime, where I meandered across the floor in search of productivity and purpose.

Home was the night, doing nothing but absorbing your glance, feeling purpose in your stare.

Home was not a place.

Home was a you, and I never felt like I could get there quick enough.

Home was not lazy Sundays, cereal, and the sounds of cars outside.

Home was listening to your steady heart, racing the sun back to my house, and more often than not, a groggy following morning.

Home was not sound ridden.

Home was your secure embrace, and the strange quiet I was able to find in the mess that was my mind.

Home was not the reliable couch you became part of at the end of the day.

Home was feeling alive and safe simultaneously. Home was standing on the edge of a cliff, but leaning against your forearms and feeling your head upon my shoulder. Unshakeable.

Home was not an address.

Home was any direction we took, and the zip code was our license plates.

You sighed. You pulled me close. I sighed.

Words, timid at first, confidently finished, escaped from you.

"What does this feel like to you?"

I leaned into every bit of you and sank in.

"It feels like home."

.K SG C.

Old Lightbulbs.

A light came on.

You smiled and there it was. The light. That light. The one I had missed, the one I had lost. It was there, beaming at me in every sound, color, and language I could comprehend.  And couldn't. I hoped to understand those later.

But it was there. It did not have a brightness, but a precense. I knew it was a light. I did not need my eyes blinded, or the company of pitch black to see. Perhaps that's why this light felt different.  I closed my eyes. I opened. You were still there. Your light was still there. I no longer needed the darkness to see it.

I looked down to my feet, hoping I would not feel so illuminated. You had a way of doing that. The way you looked. The smile. The light. I could feel myself on display. Not under scrutiny, nor up for criticism, but to be admired. In the light. In your light. In the light that was warm. I knew I should welcome it, accept it, perhaps dance in it, but I could not. My feet offered protection from the goodness you were offering me. From the goodness I had condemned. They were my favorite shoes. But I cursed them for their temptation. 

No, no, come back. I panicked. I broke away from the hold on my shoes and looked to you. Darkness I expected. My chance gone. Squandered. Fleeing.

No. You reached out. The light. My god there it was. Again. Bright. But in disposition, not in sight. It was shooting through me, like electricity to my body. Renegade veins happily carried the glowing significance that was your light. My light. Possibly our light. I withered. Our. I wondered if there was enough of it to speak like that.

And right then I swear every particle of space that surrounded us became injected with this contagious light that you created. I could hear the hum of a million old lights that had been waiting to be turned on. I could hear their cheers. Gleeful buzzing. 

You were here. I was here. I couldn't explain it, but my god I didn't care. How does this happen?  You laughed. Oh that sound. In harmony with the lights. All of them. Yours, theirs, mine, ours. It created a symphony of understanding, and bliss. I turned. The lights were still on. The darkness hadn't fallen.

You were here. It was all that mattered. I turned my back on the off switch and looked to you.

You smiled.

A light came on.

.K SG C.

In the name of what is good.

In the name of what is good,

Let me write this space

About what it feels to write of good

From a less darker place.

In the name of what is good 

Let me be reminded 

That there is so much potential

In the parts that are still lighted 

In the name of what is good

Let me not forget

Despair may make for pretty words,

But there's more to it than that.

In the name of what is good

Do your best to remember 

That there is so much good to tap into 

When you're on a downward bender

In the name of what is bad

Don't choose to stay long

There's nothing worse than being 

A regular of what is wrong

In the name of what is good

My god make it matter

In the name of what is good

Choose to write from better.

Do not let darkness become your default

Or misery be the same

In the name of all things good

Don't forget good's name.

.K SG C. 

 

Phoenix.

For the times when I search out reasons why, instead of solutions to change the what. In times of fear, diapair, loss

of hope. Search out yourself. You are far stronger than you know, and hold more capability than any outside source can provide. Seek out refuge in yourself, even when you're broken.

The glass hit the floor

Although it did not matter

The window lay there broken

But it was our hearts that shattered

And the hole that now held place 

Gaping, bold and harsh

Did no justice in the least

For the holes is each of us

Loudness filled the empty

The water quickly rose

So we turned away and jumped ship 

In search of different coasts

I remember when light approached

My memory recalls it blurred

But I could make out the silhouette 

Of a larger bird

A Phoenix I concluded

A sure sign of rebirth 

But being in its precense

Felt like going backwards 

It felt hot to the touch

It stung just like my eyes

The pain was not alleviated  

It's tears mimicked my cries 

The sting proceeded to spread 

And furious I became

How did I get here?

At the mercy of feathered flame?

The light shut off suddenly

And I willed the bird away

It's abcense didn't bring relief

To the burn now engraved

So I looked out in the distance

Contemplating with revere

I hadn't the words to describe

What had transpired here

So I sought out comfort

A safety guarentee

I layed amongst the dark

And went chasing after sleep

The Phoenix couldn't fix it

A job too large it was 

For any living entity

To fix the damage done

But it lead us to a place 

That we never needed more

It provided us with closed eyes

More importantly closed doors

And slumber did bring comfort

Sudden clarity

I may not know how to fix it

But in mending I did see

I no longer worried about the mess

From the pieces broke apart

I knew we'd all heal in time 

From our shattered hearts

No pheonix will fix it all

The coast, nor light will do

When it comes to picking yourself up

Search for strength in you 

And it may not always feel easy 

Bur here is what the key is-

You must hold on to what whole feels like

When your heart lies there in pieces.

.K SG C.

It was enough.

You could say that I felt it,

Love I suppose

Perhaps I just felt 

To get you out of your clothes 

And now we are here

Eerily close

With nothing redeeming 

Nothing that shows

Only traces of hope

It's reminents close

This end that we've buried

Ten feet below

But we leave here with this

God only knows

It may not have been love

But It was enough for us both

.K SG C.

The hurt you deserve.

My body hurt from caring.

I cared for you caring for yourself, and I cared for me caring for you. My body was swollen from how much care I felt for you. 

My heart hurt from the weight I placed on it in the name of you. Fault not yours nor mine, but weight bared none the less out of the grey inbetween. I willingly hurt in the name of caring for you. The weight was still not as heavy as what giving up on you felt like.

My fingers hurt. My fingers hurt from erasing every damned word I tried to write that did not justify the enormous care I felt towards you. My hands hurt from holding yours because they had grown too weak to hold onto hope themselves. My hands hurt in the name of being that hope, and being something you could hold onto.

My mind hurt from you. My mind hurt from fighting for what you deserved. My mind hurt from wanting a happiness for you that you had misplaced in other things. My mind had become sore from wandering into places of light in hopes that you would follow. My mind hurt because I was searching on behalf of us both for the place where it gets better, and the place I would no longer have to hurt out of caring for you. The place you should have been all along.

My soul ached for you. It ACHED for you. It ached for every inch of pain you felt that could not be relieved. My soul ached for every regret you feel, every opportunity that escaped your grasp, and for every avenue you had surpassed in the name of what is smarter. My soul ached for the soul you could have. It pined for the feelings deep down you should feel. My soul ached for every bit of disappointment you found in yourself that could not be retrieved. 

I cared so much that every bit of my being rang out in unanimous protest against the care I felt for you, the care you should feel for yourself.

I cared so much that I became the single buoy bracing a rampant storm. The single buoy keeping both of us afloat.

I cared so much because I hoped it would be enough.

I cared so much it hurt.

My whole body hurt.

.K SG C.

The Mornings.

I woke up with your name in my mouth,

I couldn't get the after taste out.

My hands clenched in fists 

From the void in my chest

No relief in the air from

Your memory's caress 

Your face keeps me up,

Your name like a knife

That's poking and prodding

Back into my life

Too many hours

Escaped from me

Too many suns risen

With not enough sleep

I've been invaded

By your haunting regret 

A sweet loss of relief

A surrender I've met

And I'm faced with a choice

Behind enemy lines 

Hold this sharp pride

Or face lovely demise

A 5am battle

I've fought too many times

I've run out of strength

And your strength runs on mine

Closed eyes offer no answers 

Dreams no advice

A precarious position

That'll eat me alive 

Your openness 

May have been your undoing 

Yet I'm the one left here

Wondering "What was I doing?"

My skin remains bare

Stripped of you 

My coverage gone

My bones peeking through 

I can feel you in the mornings 

When my mind's off it's leash

In the vacant spot next to me

Your name still on the lease

But the hours will pass and morning will go

Time will move on like it should

Until then I'll savor this moment

While the taste of you is good

.K SG C.

The best thing, and the worst thing.

The worst thing you can do is make someone feel unloved because they no longer make choices for you.

The best thing you can do is make someone feel loved because they are finally making choices for themselves.

.K SG C.

It wasn't the same.

It was all the same yet, nothing was the same. The halls seemed narrower yet they were still halls. The windows omitted the same light, yet the color in which the light appears was significantly different. Brighter, darker. Light none the less. Nights felt different too. The dark was the dark, yet the way it settled onto your chest varied. Maliscous it once was, cautious it was now. Unbearable it began, subtle it became. Perhaps it had grown weary of me as I had grown. Perhaps it became threatened by what I pit against it. Perhaps there were now two darknesses in my room.  It was all different. I had replaced my memories with that of space in which new memories could be made. Odd, I thought. Years and years in once place, yet a sliver of that in another and I begin to forget. Had I grown careless with my own mind? Had I stopped challenging my mind to think for itself? Had I ultimately been the un-doer of my own past? It was there. Etched into my history, forever unchanged. But it was fading. Recalling the once second nature knowledge became a neccessary search through my own archives. I found myself struggling to stay afloat in my own past and the memories that engulfed it. It was the same. The way I walked in and felt the walls and ceilings protect me from the outside. Sometimes the way it could protect me from the inside. Perhaps we had brought too many of our insides with us here. I could still sense it though. The urge to protect. Such safety I once knew I learned. I sought out. Why? Because it was the same. Because it wasn't the same. Because we change. Perhaps we can only rely on others protection so much. Perhaps that's what I learned here. Perhaps that's what I learned there, now. I could hear cars, much like before. I never realized how similar the sounds were. Perhaps that is why I never took notice. Because it felt the same.  I wondered what the cars thought as they drove by. I wondered where they were going, the journeys in which they embarked on. Perhaps I wondered of their own change. The sames and differences of their lives now. Perhaps I gained perspective in my wonder. Knowing that every adventure each person in this world tackles, they must face what I face. We are all the same, yet we are different. I wondered if they knew how thankful I was for their sound, and it's soothing familiarity. I wonder if they knew the favor they were doing by just being the same. I traced the ceiling, breathing, thinking. How did it all get here? How did I get here? I was the same, yet I wasn't the same. Perhaps that is neccessary for getting here. For getting life. For getting me. Walking through narrower halls, looking at a different light. Embracing the darkness inside, and utilizing the light. Perhaps I wasn't the same. I wasn't the same, because the same had changed, and I was a warrior.

.K SG C.

The moment I knew.

I knew you didn't love me

When you looked into my eyes

And ever after all these years 

You couldn't recognize

"Green."  I said,

"My eyes are green."

And you shook your head and muttered aloud

"I'd never really seen."

I laughed and changed the subject

Not thinking much of it

But I knew right then a hole had formed

And it wasn't gunna quit

If you had known the color of

My eyes I wouldn't doubt 

But I couldn't ignore the complacentcy 

That slipped out of your mouth

Whether you never thought to notice 

Or you didn't really care

It was those little things that mattered

And those little things weren't there

If you knew the color of my eyes 

Perhaps I wouldn't be

Questioning why you'd never thought

To really look at me

I wish you would've commented 

On the shade my eyes appeared

When you'd give me the look I'd always hoped

To see after all these years.

But instead you brushed it off

And continued the conversation

And as I ventured to a different place

I had a revelation

If you loved me like you said you did

More notice you would've took

Love doesn't make excuses

For those who don't even think to look.

.K SG C. 

Full circle.

We came around full circle.

Our hearts sprouted in the summer. 

We flourished in the sunlight, like daffodils growing towards the sky. 

Our hearts withered in the fall. 

As the petals began to fall from their center, so did I from you. 

Our hearts froze in the winter. 

Much like the the gardens covered in snow, our hearts were subdued by the coldness overcome by our absence. 

By the time spring came along, my heart re awoke. 

Much like the daffodils that lined my house, my heart defied the cold and began to again grow hungry for the warmth. Much like the daffodils, I felt my heart once again long for the sun that had vanished since last summer.

By the time summer came along, my heart was new. 

Much like the daffodils in front of my house, I was a new flower. I had grown, crumbled, and started again. 

As much as the daffodil I was like, a new daffodil I became. 

We came full circle.

But while the seasons are a cycle, no year will be the same. 

No flower will be the same.

.K SG C.

90 degrees.

It was 75 degrees 

But 90 between you and me.

Even as the night got darker,

Our breath manifested the breeze.

You looked up at the sky above 

While telling me of what you love.

Even as you got lost amongst the stars

I could feel you here enough.

We walked in utter trust

That our next step wouldn't bust

But with each trip among our path 

I put faith into us.

You told me of your dreams 

How far away they seemed.

But your unwillingness to disappoint

Was your fuel to keep on going.

Your camera flashed our stature

As you clicked and began to capture

A night full of 2 renegade kids

And the dreams they were after

And to our absolute surprise

The sprinklers suddenly rised 

Without a second to run away

We were soaked from feet to eyes

And as we lay there soaking wet

Only the sky and the dark to witness it

We suddenly felt much closer 

To the futures which we were set 

And your hand grabbed mine instantly

And I swear then, momentarily 

I felt your palm turn icy cold

Against my hand so feverishly

Within that moment we returned

To our previous hot temperature

And just like that I whirled right back

To the 90 degrees I remembered

And I wasn't sure if that quick cold

Was doubt radiating from his mind untold

But I basked in its reshreshing glimpse

As our night began to unfold

It was 65 degrees

But 90 between him and me

And even when the cold rushed in

Our breath upheld our heartbeats.

And as the light came creeping in

And the darkness disappeared

You smiled wide and breathed in deep

And that breeze blew away my fear.

It felt like 90 degrees between us.

As day turned to night.

I'll always be fondest of that darkness

That brought us so much light. 

.K SG C.

Yes.

We said yes.

We didn't know where it would take us, but we gave it a shot.

We put our foot down, and we dedicated ourself to yes.

We found ourselves in yes.

We found ourselves dancing and mobilizing ourselves in the side-effects of yes.

We found ourselves discovering, stumbling, and laughing more- all in the hand of yes and the encouragement of it's nodding head. 

We said yes.

We shed our insecurities and uncertainties and permitted ourselves unbridled enjoyment in the presence of Yes.

We agreed to never regret yes.

Because of this,

We found ourselves living in yes. 

Truly living. 

Vibrantly, colorfully, unforgettably.

We drowned in yes.

We became less critical of ourselves, and more cynical of no- we opened.

We witnessed our expanding horizons within every one of our brave yes's.

We found yes,

And we found ourselves.

We said yes.

We said yes.

.K SG C.

Cliche writes.

Waterfall

How lucky you are

To flow easily past obstacles 

The small and the large.

Waterfall 

Do not play coy 

Whats it like to be beautiful

Even when you destroy?

Waterfall

How lucky you've been 

To exist as a threat 

But still draw us in  

Waterfall

Will you teach me your ways?

How to freeze in the winter?

And remain until May?

Waterfall

How do you do it?

You remain through it all

How do you get through it?

Waterfall 

I must bid thee adou

I hope I can learn 

To not wish to be you.

.K SG C.

The You's.

I thought about You again. 

I thought about the You I had years ago and the You I hope to find in the years to come. 

I thought about what You looked like, what I looked like, what we might have looked like together.  

I thought about You.  

I thought about the words I had never been able to find until you carefully, but unshakabley found me. 

 

I thought about the slight curve of your jaw where my hands found direction and the place on my knee where your hands found safety. 

I also think about what you'll look like, what I'll look like, what we might look like together.

I think about you. 

I think about what your nervous laugh will sound like, and the words we'll exchange at 2:43 in the morning when we can't sleep and you can't get the ending of the movie we had just seen out of your head. 

I thought about your sheets. 

The smell of your arms intertwined into the soft cotton promise of tomorrow morning.

I also think about what your sheets will look like.

I think about what the wrinkles will mean and the stories that will be forever scribed into the canvas that will be our sheets. 

I think about what you were.

The indecision you often faced, your fluctuating emotions, your unpredictable presence. 

I thought about your reasons, the Her that you wanted me to be, and the way in which you guarded my fears.. 

I think about what You might be. 

I think about the demons you encounter, the Her you'll be running from, and the fears you'll have in me. 

I think about where you're escaping to and what you're looking to find. I think about the parts of life you'll write and the parts of life you'll leave behind.

I thought of You again. 

Of You in nostalgia, and You in hope.

Between your memory and your potential, I found myself torn.

I thought about the You that was, and the you that will be.

I thought about You again, damn it.

And I don't know which I'm waiting for.

.K SG C.

The dream contents

Here's the story

Of where you're headed

The action of

Adventure

As the lead instrument 

Mind and matter

Climbing a stairway to

The future

The clouds remain sideways

Mountain peaks rise with the winds

She turned her back on the

Great divide

Taking a chance on what

Lies inside

When all your time flies away

And the world is visible in color

And the life and death of pressures

In the midst of powers unknown

Are eclipsed by the fire of memory

And heart and life unshakeable 

Everything in the air will be

Ambivalent and alive

Much like what exists within us

All of us

It Will always guide us

Home.

.K SG C.

The space between.

You believed in the potential

You believed in your mind

You believed in the feeling

That sparks from coming back

Then you get high off leaving

You believed in the before 

You believed in the race

Always catching up to me 

Set on my capture

When your intention was never to keep me

You never believed in the after

You believed in yourself

You believed in what you want

You were out for you alone 

Attent to your own need

You never believed in it at all 

You never believed in me.

.K SG C.

11:14

I'm sorry

That the questions you have 

Dwell in the answers

I don't.

.K SG C.

Things you might.

I couldn't help but wonder

If you ever do things 

You later regret

Because you thought of 

Me again

And you wanted to forget 

I couldn't help but question 

If the shadows under your eyes

Were really

From the paper you forgot to write

Or if

I crept into your head again

And my memory was too bright

I'd be lying if I said

I didn't think from time to time 

About the day she does something 

I used to 

And you'll see me in her eyes

And the look you'll give her

As you try to 

Pretend

That you were happy where you stood

When all you could

Think about

Was the part of you that would 

Do countless things

You'd later regret 

If only for that moment 

I was standing in her shoes

But am I any better

As I sit here 

And wonder

About all the things you might 

When you may not even 

Wonder  

If you're still in everything

I write.

.K SG C.

The Weight of Your Heart.

Your heart was a universe

An unknown abyss 

Mystified and enamored

I succumbed to my curiousness 

Your heart was a universe 

Mysterious and ferocious 

I greedily wanted the moon

Ignoring the dark amongst it

Your heart became my universe

Fixed on the vastness I'll never know

Obsessed with it's secrets guarded

By your galaxies imminent glow

Your heart consumed my universe

My thoughts, my drive, my all

I gave into your gravity

I have become the fall.

.K SG C.

The Clearing

Wednesday I woke up, in a bit of a "daze" from my previous night activities.  The daze cleared and after not more than a moment, I got out of my bed and began to adhere to my sudden desire to just GO.  I didn't really know where, or why, but I wanted to GO.  It was an odd sensation to say the least, but I trusted my gut.  In record time, I slipped into some travelling clothes, applied my purple lipstick, threw on my trusty converse and began to pack a bag.  Art stuff/writing material/reading material, a blanket, and some chex mix were to be my instruments of adventure and they fit nicely into my backpack.  With water bottle in hand, phone off and mind made up I strolled outside and began to walk.  The funny thing about it all is as soon as I walked outside, I realized I had never really become intimate with the city in which I had dwelled for the last two years.  By that I mean I had never explored it, never sought out understanding it, never desired to know about the hidden places, coves, and potential adventures that Corvallis could hold.  I had just never thought it to be necessary.  But as I find my time here dwindling down, I found that the time frame in which I could really know this city for what it could be was also expiring.  I looked towards the rolling hills on the outside of Corvallis, and began to GO.  With nothing but the company of my surroundings and my own motivation to go, I started off towards these hills in which I wanted to know.  I encourage you to take advantage of your surroundings, stay unplugged from the cyber world, and just go towards discovery. The adventure that transpires is enlightening and entirely rejuvenating.  And *big shocker* I wrote poetry about it.  As well as attached pictures for those that need some visual guidance.  Enjoy.

The Clearing

I didn't know where I was going

Or where I would stop,

Perhaps amongst the daisies

Or at the mountain top  

I was asked "Do you know where you going?"

I said, "Not I, or anyone does,"

But I knew that I would know

When I reached wherever it was

So off I went right then,

with no time to think twice,

I went out the door not looking back

Searching for alive

I simply sought out space,

Where I could listen to the sky's sound,

I shortly did discover

that that space is all around

The tall grass waved as I passed

the trees seemed to reach out,

I marveled at the warmth

This was what its about.

The wind wrapped me in her arms,

As the birds narrate,

I felt so attuned

To this place I habitate

I came to many crossroads,

I faced many forks,

I cared not which way I took

Any adventure works

It started with a hunger

To break from the confined,

Then transformed to a need

To leave it all behind

Whether it was inspiration

Or a craving for life,

I can't say what sparked it

This desire to merely thrive

I suppose I couldn't take it 

The perpetual choice to stay in,

My mind was now looking for vacancies

In an outdoor haven

I basked in my adventure

I waded in its wake,

who knew that no direction,

was the best choice I could make?

And this lack of direction,

this trust in my path

brought me great perspective 

to my daily track

I searched for a clearing

One just out of the way,

Where I could lay against the earth

And just bathe in the day

I came to many options,

At each I'd think, "I'm set."

But shortly after, I'd feel a pull

telling me, "you're not there yet."

So I continued on,

with the road strongly holding up my feet,

I breathed in my space,

And smiled at those who passed me.

At last I approached an opening,

The clearing I envisioned,

A bond soon grew between us

I had made my decision

I planted myself along the grass,

I greeted all the flowers,

I took my shoes off briskly

And planned my next few hours

I certainly felt a grace,

An unparalleled peace,

But a disappointment sat in

As I looked up to the trees.

I had estimated a satisfaction

would arrive in toppling force,

but I sat there unresolved

Waiting for there to be more.

I looked out at my view,

A beautiful one I knew,

As I lingered in its presence,

An understanding grew

I made up my mind that morning,

I chose to get out of my spot,

I had acted on this notion,

And just LOOK at this beautiful place I got

I had re-awoken the flame

That adventure can be,

And that burning desire to GO

Should have been enough for me

But I was driven further,

Stumbling into bliss,

The JOURNEY was what made up

The moment that was this.

So I stopped my line of thinking,

I knew I needed to quit

Always looking for the next thing

and asking "this is it?"

Because I acted on a now,

A present whim I fostered

I hadn't a plan for a "next step"

leaving the future un-bothered

And in doing that I preserved

The ability to enjoy now

Omitting the stress of the future,

 No why's, where's or hows

So as I did before,

I lived in the moment,

I wrote and loved and reflected

On what this journey alone meant

Because though I was alone,

the one witness to the day,

there were so many others

that made my journey this way

The smiles from those passing,

The earth in all her glory,

Were with me the whole time

Helping me write this story

I really don't know where I'm going,

And I can say I really don't care

Because where you get to is only as relevant

As the journey that got you there.

.K SG C.

Get out today.  Destination is good for the mind, journey is good for the soul.

Writers Remorse

           I had the strangest sensation tonight…. Have you ever had writers remorse? I wrote some angry poetry today. Perhaps poetry that, looking back now, was a little harsh and entirely blown out of proportion. But in the moment, as I was writing it, I felt like it was completely justified. Now, as I sit and read back the words, I feel a sense of complete maliciousness, like I was too hard on the page, too silently angry and uncharacteristically cruel for writing so monstrously against parchment that could not defend itself. And to top it all off, since I chose to write instead of verbally articulate, I'm left with no way to apologize for it. With no one to own up to, and no one truly to "confess" to, I found myself bound to my own frustration with my unbridled anger and no release for it. It was all done on paper, in pen, forever dictated. I can’t forget it, nor are they words that slip out of my mouth and into the minutes and sounds of the day, easily to be forgotten and estranged from my thinking and conscious. They are ingrained into the paper, and I feel guilty because I felt angry enough to give them an inked permanence. 

        That’s the funny thing about writing; the double sided sword. You can’t take back written words. You can get rid of the paper, burn it, throw it in the ocean. But those words will be there still. You can’t apologize to them or ask for forgiveness. They can’t accept an apology. Writing is a serious commitment and you have to be okay with what you write.  You have to be okay with looking at your paper like it was a mirror, and seeing the worst and best sides looking back at you. And not only this, but you have to come to terms with the image you see when you don't like it and know that it's truly a reflection of the time from start to paper, to end of paper and there is no taking that back. 

          Do I really believe in "writers remorse?" No. I've learned for the most part that we are what we are, we feel what we feel, and we write what we write. We are allowed to write irrationally, bitterly, and furiously. It's part of the system of thinking, writing and reflecting. I guess I believe everything you construe on paper is done so for a reason. And even beauty can come from darkness and that is something we not only need to be in touch with, but learn to coexist with. You have to accept all the light and dark that is emitted from your writing and accept that sometimes it needs to be there. Such is life I suppose, it's vital to our mere existence just as much as it is our creative presence. You have to deal with whatever you felt in the moment you chose to write, good or bad. It’s funny, this writing business. It's really odd. Writing about someone in such a way that they will never be able to accept the apology you can’t give them. The paper and the person will never receive it, and that pains me a little. Beautiful words, but hurtful words. I surprise myself sometimes. 

                                                    Writers remorse. Strange indeed.

Celebrate.

            Writers block is a funny concept to me.... I was just sitting in front of my computer wondering how on earth it's possible to have so much going on around you and inside your own mind but have NOTHING to put on paper.  I love writing.  I love everything about words, and feelings, and thoughts and intertwining them in an eloquent (and more often than not) erratic fashion.  But sometimes, I find myself completely unable to produce the slightest bit of scribed insight even in the midst of serious inspiration.  It's worse than any teenage angst, sexual frustration or birthday countdown.  This inability to articulate feelings into words ranks upwards as my most loathed feeling of tension and pinnacle of absolute frustration.
           Interestingly enough, sitting here in a creative funk forced me to ask myself, "why do I even write?  What is the point of writing?"  After a lot of internal debate and an almost existential crisis, I realized the reason for writing is way simpler than I thought.  No profound reason, or savvy, insightful explanation.

I write to celebrate.  

I know that sounds weird, but its irrevocably true.  Even if I write about something sad, or disheartening, I find that writing is my way of celebrating my new or sudden organizing of thoughts, acceptance of facts or understanding of something.  Writing is cool like that.  It's a declaration of feelings and thoughts and proof of our right to think what we want and put it out into the world.  And the best part is no one can write exactly like you, or me, or your mom, or your sister.  We are granted at birth this incredible right to express and celebrate however we see fit.  Writing is often the way I see fit.  Sometimes I find myself losing track of my original intent for writing and find myself instead trying to fulfill some unspoken need to make a point on something.  But I remembered, the reason I write isn't to always make a point, but to help absorb the moments that are worth writing about. Sitting here made me remember that 

I don't always need a motive to write. 

           Sure, I usually utilize writing as an avenue to work out my opinion on something or as a place to reach out to others, but I started out writing simply to reflect on what was around me; to remember happenings and to just

celebrate.

         It feels pretty good to celebrate.  To throw yourself a mental party, to take an emotional or intellectual vacation. It just feels incredible to mindlessly bask in the surroundings that make life unconsciously spectacular and unique to us. I forgot how utterly delightful it is to just celebrate yourself and to celebrate what is around you.  

        For example, I sat in a coffee shop around the corner from my house on earth day and felt this growing exuberance as the rain pelted the window I was next to. This is because with this monsoon came warm sunshine directly following it. I took a hiatus from my usual disgruntlement with the Oregon weather and relished in it instead.  How lucky are we to have rain to wash away the clogs in our minds from stress, anger, frustration and then receive the luxury of warmth and light to restore our joy and lighten our moods within seconds after?  I was able to look past the inconvenience of the hot and cold weather and see it more as a gift.  This made the rain seem kinder, and not so menacing. This made the sun seem brighter, and wiser, and compassionate. This usual mood dampener of weather bipolarity suddenly appeared so much differently to me.  I saw it as a sign of love and endearment from our earth to us, her way of taking care of us and reminding us she is here.  I put down my book and couldn't help but wonder if the kids fleeing the downpour would have the chance to see the rain as a chance to cleanse, and rinse them selves of heaviness and burden.  I willed them to see this the way I did.  I hoped from the deepest parts of myself that those around me or those rushing to get out of the rain or those cursing at the sun for its unexpected appearance would get the chance to celebrate instead.  I sipped my coffee.  A weight had been lifted. 

            It's not just weather either.  It's everything. There is so much capacity for celebration in the world. It's seeing old people hold hands.  It's getting coffee that doesn't taste burned.  It's finding a new band. It's the smile and wave you receive from a driver telling you it's safe to cross. It's especially finishing a book, even when it hurts a little.  Even when that end feels like the departure of a friend, a loss of a loved one, or an unexpected end to a wonderful relationship.  It's staggering how powerful words are. And the way I see it, there is celebration to be had in the mere feeling.  We are so lucky to be entitled to feel so strongly.  We are so lucky to be able to cry, to laugh, to cheer, to smile, to yell.  We are so lucky to feel love for things, people, words, art, etc.  We are even lucky in our ability to come in contact with the dark feelings.  We are lucky to be capable of feeling passion, to experience hatred, to grieve. Because these are indications we are human, and we are alive, and we are vibrant.  How cool is that?  

          

          And not only this, but we have inalienable access to OTHER people.  I made it a point to smile and make eye contact with every person who I passed by on my way to class at the beginning of the week.  I took a break from the consuming abyss that is my phone, and instead chose to celebrate each person who I came in proximity with, doing this with just a smile and a hint of human-to-human contact.  This celebration came from no reason other than they were walking, rolling or skating by me and that meant they were here. They were studying for midterms, applying for scholarships, rushing from work to class and their existence deserved some positive acknowledgement. Coexisting in the same city as me, in the same state, in the same country. We are all humans and we are doing great!  

          Plus, celebration is the best adrenaline rush.  It fills you with positive vibes that in turn, lead to courage and confidence.  You know, it's pretty astonishing to realize that there is potential in every person you pass.  It's pretty radical that in every shoulder you brush against, in every "excuse me", "are you using this chair" or "would you like a receipt" there is potential for blooming friendships, connections, relationships.  It is even MORE radical to think that the only barrier keeping you from planting these seeds, and spreading your own warmth and value is yourself.  YOU are entirely in charge of how many people you surround yourself with as well as the circumstances in which you find yourself meeting new people, and spreading the celebration that is you in the act of interacting fearlessly with others. Life is pretty freeing when you use that approach and you will find celebrations a natural occurrence.  If you try it, I guarantee you will feel lighter, relieved of the barriers you put around yourself and emancipated from the belief that we are meant to celebrate by ourselves only.  Celebration is best done with others. 

       Ultimately, I guess writing for me is sort of driven by reason or a point.  But it feels good to center writing around no serious stance, no monumental stream of thinking or point.  It feels good to reflect and bring back the serious happiness I get from writing just to write. It feels good to have the reason appear after I have written than to develop writing around a reason. Remembering to celebrate is important you know?  It keeps us sane and counteracts ominous forces of occasional overwhelming and harsh realities.  I urge you to

Celebrate.

Life is reason enough.