okay, I believe you.

I never identified as one of those people whose lives revolve around music. I like music, love music, feel a large part of my day has a soundtrack at some point. But I never felt music the way true music-lovers did. I didn't try to learn about music, to know music from the inside out.

It wasn't until I met them that music began to mean something and then it wasn't something good. At least, not now. Music was so much a part of our lives, together. Making music, listening to music, singing to the music. And now hearing certain songs, certain bands I am immediately transported back to them, to that time. Never are memories as vivid as they are when I listen to Brand New or Say Anything.

I hate thinking about them but more than that I hate that its even an issue. I hate that they've attached themselves to my music like parasites. I want to listen to this without feeling swamped, without remembering what you did to me.

I dreamt about him the other night thanks to a song he used to play me all the time. It was a nightmare after the fact but it wasn't a bad dream. The memory of that dream alone leaves a rotten taste in my mouth.

Up the stairs, the station where: the act becomes the art of growing up...yeah right. Die young and save yourself.

Be strong

This is beautiful, sentiments to live by (even with religious connotations):

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,
gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously
give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.

A Return to Love - Marianne Williamson

Snow.

I always hated winter in Minnesota. The first snowfall is beautiful, blanketing the town, suffocating the earth. Muffling the sounds of human interference. But then it got colder, the snow turned ugly colors as people traversed in it, on it, around it. Then it became a burden, less beautiful. Less magical.

But snow was this symbol of home, the only home I had ever known. Nomadic growing up, I reveled at the idea of growing roots. Morris became that home to me. And snow in Morris was something to wonder at. It even tasted better.

My first full winter away from Morris, down here where snow is a legendary myth told to scare kids into being good drivers, and I miss snow like crazy. Not the cold or the inconvenience of it. But the beauty of first snowfall. The wonder of nature. The quiet and hush as the world holds its breath. It snowed for the first time today. It is just a light powder, patchy and temporary. The puppies play outside, one who had never seen snow before, and come in covered in a soft dew for the their efforts.

And, just for a little white until it melts, its like I'm home again.

writer.

I've been plagued with stories over the last month. I've always wanted to write. In a dream world, where people could do whatever they wanted no matter the salary, I wanted to be an author. I wanted to make up stories, fantastical ones, removed from reality. Some days, I'll re-read some of my passages of halted stories from years past and think "Damn, I'm good. I should really write something." And other days, I'll laugh out loud at my audacity to think I'm a writer.

But whether your published or not, good or not, does not mean you're a writer.

I think writing is this beautiful, cathartic, necessary thing. Everything should do it, even if its for private consumption.

Anyway, lately, because I've been reading so much (I think I've hit over 60 books in the last 30 days. Granted most of these are dirty romance, but books nonetheless) stories having been flowing in and out of my brain matter like spirits on the river Styx. I want to write it all down, get the voices of the characters and the backgrounds out of my head, where they consume my thoughts and dreams. But before, in the past, as soon as I start writing and give voice to the characters, they go away, satisfied. And I lose interest. Its like short, gentle purge and then I'm empty, left to dry-heave, uselessly.

And I like the voices right now. I'm so lonely down here with no one during my month of break that sometimes I think the fictional, made-up characters are all I have. And maybe that's why they exist.

ramblings.

I don't know how I ever came to acquire this weird fascination with writing my thoughts and feelings down and having other people read them. I don't consider myself terribly passive and enjoy hearty confrontations about my feelings and why I feel them. I do consider myself very well-adjusted: I take a moment to ponder why I feel the way I do, I can generally rationalize my emotions, and I don't second-guess them. I might be outrageously angry, too much so for the situation, but they're my feelings. I ride it out, accept I felt that way, then move on.

I guess I used to be incredibly sad. A lot and all the time. It wasn't medicate-me depression, but your usual teenage-angst. (worrying about friends and boys and clothes and make-up and listening to the right music) I used to be incredibly sad and nobody knew, or, if they did, nobody cared. So, I started speaking my mind and working out my feelings.

Now, I find myself happy more times then sad. Laid-back more times than angry. Forgiving more than full of hate.

Maybe this stems from my hopeless desire to be fascinating. I have carrot-orange hair, a short, squat stature; I wear glasses have acne on my chin. I wholly (below) average. But everything I feel inside, everything I think, is so interesting. To me. And I want other people to think that.

Do we ever get over our desire to be liked by someone? Is the need for approval societal conditioning brought on by the reward/punishment system? Or are is it ingrained in us to to prove ourselves worthy so we become the leader, get the best slice of meat, the best furs and the prettiest mate?

I'm newly turned 21 and I feel plagued with thoughts of an older soul. Or maybes its just my generation. Currently, I obsess about romance most likely due in part to the lack of it in my life. I question the point of relationships, how they work for people, the complex workings of them, the idea of being beholden to another. Love. That word, that feeling, that idea. Even now, I wrinkle my nose. And yet...I read page after page of trashy romance novels. I cry like a blubbering fool every single time I watch The Notebook. Why? Because he loved her. And she couldn't remember. And it tore him up inside. Sometimes, when I go ahead and allow myself to turn fictional characters into human beings, I think he would've preferred if she had died before she forgot him and their love. Or, left him but stayed cognizant. As if, maybe, the fact she couldn't remember meant it didn't exist for her and her loving him was just as important as his love for her.

Does that kind of love exist, honestly? Is Hollywood setting us up for the biggest disappointment?