So I just have not been on top of my shit this week.
For example, in one of my classes, we have to do experiments from this book "The Writing Experiment" by Hazel Smith. So... the first two chapters are online, so I didn't worry about ordering the book until this last week... terrible idea. You see, chapter three is not online, and my book is not here yet. Also... the bookstore doesn't have it, not one Barnes and Noble in all of San Diego has it, and not one library in all of San Diego has it. :| Fail fail fail fail. So... I decided to attempt some sad charm, and I said that my experiment would be what happens when you don't have your shit together, and I then proceeded to pull a story out of my ass. Excuse my language. Here's the story.
(They're only supposed to be about a page...)
Help
She looked down at her hands, covered in a rich, generous brown.
What kind of shit have I gotten myself into now? She thought. Literally, she added, snorting.
She struggled to get up, afraid of losing sight of the two men and the girl she was trying to follow. “FUCK!” she whispered hoarsely under her breath as her palm caught on the jagged edge of a rock, leaving an equally jagged cut across her hand. She wiped her hands on her legs, smearing the blood on her brand-new pair of jeans that she just splurged on. Getting to her feet, she crouched low to the ground, and took a couple of careful, strategically placed steps in the direction they went. Resting her uninjured hand on the closest tree to her in the lightly-wooded area, she took several deep breaths, trying to steady herself after that tumble down into wherever the hell she was now. She looked back at where she had fallen from, back to the street where she could still see the faint glow of lights from the nearby restaurants.
Taking one last look at the safety of the street, she took a deep breath and started off toward the crunch-crunch she could hear as their footsteps trudged farther and farther away, toward the reason she was out here, at this time of night, by herself, in the first place.
-*-*-*-
Earlier that evening
Jane sighed, long and wounded, at the thought of another minute on her feet.
“Just five more minutes, and I swear I’ll get up,” she pleaded to her boss, Pete.
Chuckling, Pete replied, “Fine, fine. Just five, though, Jane. You know how crazy people get when they can’t order their food within thirty seconds of closing their menus. But only because the only tables we have filled have already order – Sorry Jane. You gotta go back now, another party just came in, and I’d take it but… well, I don’t want to.”
Grumbling good-naturedly at her boss, her dad’s oldest brother, Pete, Jane got to her feet, smoothed out the legs of her jeans, fixed a smile on her face and went up to table 5.
“Welcome to Cosgrove’s, would you like to hear about the special?”
-*-*-*-
“Those people were seriously weird, Uncle Pete. There was something about the look in their eyes, not to mention that weird smell they had. And that girl – she looked almost… scared.”
“You’re just reading too into things, Janey. People are weird, it’s just who they are. Don’t worry about it,” Uncle Pete said.
“You’re right, they were just… so weird.”
Walking over to clean up the table where the curious trio had sat, Jane noticed something white stuck under the chair where the girl had sat.
“What the hell – why did she stick a napkin under here?” Jane mumbled to herself.
Flipping it over, only then did she see the words brokenly scrawled across it.
Not much time. I’m never alone except at the house. They keep me tied up. Help me. Please. Not much time. They said they’re almost through with me. Tonight, they said. Help me. Please.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
What I Learned In College
One of my classes gave the assignment to write a 500-1000 word paper about what we learned in college.
I learned the difference between colloquial writing and formal writing. I learned how to use Adobe Flash. I learned about the hypocrisies of witch trials in the 1600s. I learned the strategies in film noir used to manipulate the feelings of the audience. I learned how to effectively read hundreds and hundreds of pages a day. I learned how to take the characters in my head and turn them into a story. I learned how to title a paper to hook the reader. I learned how to interview someone for a well-written paper. I learned how to re-write clichés in a masterful fashion. I learned how to make my readers feel the same emotions my characters feel. I learned about the monstrosities of the animal-farming industry. I learned how one rock-and-roll icon can sway a decade’s youth. I learned how to read Middle English writings, and I learned how much I hate them. I learned about the torment Frederick Douglass was put through, and his struggle to break through, to break past it. I learned how to write sonnets and sestinas and prose. I learned how nightmare-ish-ly fast the quarter system is. I learned how to bullshit an entire paper and still get an A. I learned how to successfully write about the symbolism, the themes, the writing styles, the development of characters in a book I’ve never touched. Academically, I’ve learned a lot. I learned just how life-changing transferring to UC San Diego really was for me. Academically or not, because I also learned a lot about myself in college.
I learned how to be a support system for two fourth-grade little girls. I learned to write what is in my heart, rather than what I think would “sound nice”. I learned what real friendship is, and I learned the people I call friends will never give up on me. I learned how to listen when a friend was in pain, to be their legs when they can’t summon the courage to walk. I learned how to be a shoulder to cry on, and I learned that it’s okay to need one. I learned that a ‘best friend’ isn’t someone who you text all the time, gossip with all the time, or even see all the time. I learned that a best friend is someone whose heart you recognize, whose company you seek when you feel like the world is ending, whose company you seek when you feel like your whole body will burst with happiness. I learned that I can be whatever I want to be, but I don’t want to do it without Anna Barminova, without Ross Bixler, without Livia Hermiz, without Nelson Harris, without Ryan Dault, without my best friends. I learned that I don’t simply go to school here, I belong here. I learned that I’m a Sixer for life. I learned how to be a leader, and how to step down and support someone else to lead. I learned how to help run a successful organization. I learned how to step outside the box and I learned how to step outside my comfort zone. I learned how to drink. I learned how to Go-Go dance. I learned how to not be afraid to go after what I want. I learned that my dreams have merit as long as I allow them to. I learned how to give myself up to the moment without losing who I am. I learned how to dance like it’s the last time I will ever hear music. I learned how to bargain shop, and I learned how to clip coupons. I learned how to live off of Top Ramen if I want to buy anything extra. I learned who I am and who I want to be. I learned how to fall in love. I learned how to find beauty in the crash of the waves, of a gust of wind on a hot day, of free food, of walking in the rain, of getting lost, of the shock of cold the ocean gives, of staying in instead of going out. I learned how much I love going back to where I’m from. I learned that this place, this city, this school has become my home. I learned how to take care of myself, and I learned how to ask for help. I learned that regardless of how much I learn, I’ll never learn everything.
I learned the difference between colloquial writing and formal writing. I learned how to use Adobe Flash. I learned about the hypocrisies of witch trials in the 1600s. I learned the strategies in film noir used to manipulate the feelings of the audience. I learned how to effectively read hundreds and hundreds of pages a day. I learned how to take the characters in my head and turn them into a story. I learned how to title a paper to hook the reader. I learned how to interview someone for a well-written paper. I learned how to re-write clichés in a masterful fashion. I learned how to make my readers feel the same emotions my characters feel. I learned about the monstrosities of the animal-farming industry. I learned how one rock-and-roll icon can sway a decade’s youth. I learned how to read Middle English writings, and I learned how much I hate them. I learned about the torment Frederick Douglass was put through, and his struggle to break through, to break past it. I learned how to write sonnets and sestinas and prose. I learned how nightmare-ish-ly fast the quarter system is. I learned how to bullshit an entire paper and still get an A. I learned how to successfully write about the symbolism, the themes, the writing styles, the development of characters in a book I’ve never touched. Academically, I’ve learned a lot. I learned just how life-changing transferring to UC San Diego really was for me. Academically or not, because I also learned a lot about myself in college.
I learned how to be a support system for two fourth-grade little girls. I learned to write what is in my heart, rather than what I think would “sound nice”. I learned what real friendship is, and I learned the people I call friends will never give up on me. I learned how to listen when a friend was in pain, to be their legs when they can’t summon the courage to walk. I learned how to be a shoulder to cry on, and I learned that it’s okay to need one. I learned that a ‘best friend’ isn’t someone who you text all the time, gossip with all the time, or even see all the time. I learned that a best friend is someone whose heart you recognize, whose company you seek when you feel like the world is ending, whose company you seek when you feel like your whole body will burst with happiness. I learned that I can be whatever I want to be, but I don’t want to do it without Anna Barminova, without Ross Bixler, without Livia Hermiz, without Nelson Harris, without Ryan Dault, without my best friends. I learned that I don’t simply go to school here, I belong here. I learned that I’m a Sixer for life. I learned how to be a leader, and how to step down and support someone else to lead. I learned how to help run a successful organization. I learned how to step outside the box and I learned how to step outside my comfort zone. I learned how to drink. I learned how to Go-Go dance. I learned how to not be afraid to go after what I want. I learned that my dreams have merit as long as I allow them to. I learned how to give myself up to the moment without losing who I am. I learned how to dance like it’s the last time I will ever hear music. I learned how to bargain shop, and I learned how to clip coupons. I learned how to live off of Top Ramen if I want to buy anything extra. I learned who I am and who I want to be. I learned how to fall in love. I learned how to find beauty in the crash of the waves, of a gust of wind on a hot day, of free food, of walking in the rain, of getting lost, of the shock of cold the ocean gives, of staying in instead of going out. I learned how much I love going back to where I’m from. I learned that this place, this city, this school has become my home. I learned how to take care of myself, and I learned how to ask for help. I learned that regardless of how much I learn, I’ll never learn everything.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Big Brother
This is my final for a class about writing monodramas.
It's super out of my element, but I'm thinking about taking the characters out and going somewhere with them, fiction wise.
We'll see.
Big Brother
(A 21 year old girl sits on her frilly pink bedspread that is placed center stage. She has her legs tucked underneath her body and is leaned back against several lacy pillows. She’s holding a piece of paper.)
“Dear Ms. Crown, this letter serves to confirm the approval of your application to the academy…”
(Her voice trails off as she simultaneously swings her legs over the side of the bed, her eyes sparkling and her voice joyous)
Haha! Too late to turn back now!
(Her voice takes an uncertain turn in tone)
Exactly. Too late to turn back now. There’s nowhere else to go but forward. Questions will have to be answered, concerns will have to be addressed, but this is it. This will be – this is my life. No matter what, this is my life.
And what a life it will be.
(She grinned)
God, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it actually happened! Quantico, Virginia, get ready for me.
(She picks up her cell phone that’s sitting just to the right of her, and answers the incoming call)
Agent Crown speaking.
(beat)
YES! I got it! The letter just came! Soooo excited!
(beat)
When do I move out? Ummm, well the letter says that training starts August first, so I think I’ll start looking for a place next month. Six months ahead should be enough, right?
(She giggles and smoothes her dress)
What?
(She sighs, bites her lower lip)
No, I haven’t told them yet. Wanna do it for me? (Her teeth flash in a quick smile)
Do I ease them into it or tell them quick like pulling off a band aid?
(beat)
You know how they feel about it.
(beat)
They refuse to even step foot there.
(She tucks her legs back up under her and sighs. She picks up a photo laying on a table to the right of her bed.)
I miss him too.
(beat)
But, look on the bright side. I’ll be home for all the holidays! And you could always come visit. It’s not the academy that’s so opposed to my parents coming.
(beat)
Yeah. Okay. Talk to you later. Love you, Nicole.
(She sets the phone down and continues to look at the framed picture. Sighs sadly.)
Oh Josh, I miss you. Mom and Dad won’t forget – they refuse to forget why you’re gone. I mean…I guess I understand that. I’ll never forget. It makes me stronger, it builds my passion, it makes me better. You understand that.
(beat)
We’re the same, Josh. You and I. Mom should be proud of that. We came from her. You were strong because of her. I’m strong because of her.
(beat)
We just happened to … do things differently.
(beat)
I’d do anything to go back to that day, or…the day before. When you were still here. When we still had you. I can still hear your laugh. I can still feel your arms around me as you hugged your little sister goodbye.
I’m not so little anymore.
(She wipes away a stray tear)
I love you, Josh. I always did and I always will. You were everything to me. My big brother, my best friend. My hero, but everything I didn’t want to be. A super hero, but a villain.
(beat)
I never understood why you chose the life you did. But I can’t help but think that you’d understand why I’m choosing this now…if you were here.
(Her voice grows angry)
Damn it, Josh! Why aren’t you here? Damn you!
(Her voice breaks)
We need you. Mom needs you. I need you.
(beat)
I need someone on my side for this.
(She chuckles at the irony)
On my side. Ha!
(She sighs deeply)
You always knew just what to say to Mom and Dad to get off in the easiest way possible. I could really use those skills right now.
(She gets up and paces to upstage right, taking the framed picture with her. The stage goes dark but for a single spotlight on her lone figure.)
I still remember that day like it was yesterday, instead of seven long years ago.
(Her voice takes on a dreamy quality as she remembers the day that changed her life forever)
It was a Monday. School had been long that day, boring. High school, what do you expect, right?
(She half-heartedly lifts her left shoulder and lets it drop)
Nicole and I were fighting because we both had a thing for the same guy.
(beat)
I don’t even remember his name.
(beat)
I was fuming about it as I walked home. I tried to call you but you didn’t answer. I needed my big brother. You always knew just what to say. I left a message. Raged about our petty little fight that was the most important thing at the time.
(beat)
If only I knew.
(She walks to upstage left with the spotlight following her and slowly eases herself to the floor, tucking her legs underneath her and resting her chin on her hands linked at the knuckles)
I knew something was off the second I got home. But I was so wrapped up in my drama with Nicole and what’s-his-name that I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t care. I dragged myself up to my room and sat down at my computer, as grumpy as could be.
(beat)
I didn’t hear the crying.
(beat)
At first.
(beat)
It wasn’t until I left my room to grab that Chunky Monkey that you left in the freezer that I heard it.
(beat)
I didn’t even understand what it was at first. It sounded like a wounded animal. A dying animal. Sometimes, I still think of it that way.
Mom died that day.
(beat)
Sure, she’s still alive. She’s still technically here. I can still go up to her and hug her, I can still hear her voice, feel her kiss. But she died that day, along with you.
(beat)
They didn’t understand. They couldn’t comprehend how this could possibly have happened to you, their wonderful son. Their perfect son. They didn’t know about it. I did. I’ll carry that with me forever. It’s on my mind all the time. It’s why I applied. It’s why I’m moving to Quantico, though Mom…
(She twirled a strand of hair between her middle and fore fingers, and looked off into the distance, past the audience)
I knew. I knew about the drugs.
(beat)
I knew you smoked, but I figured everyone did. I knew you…dabbled in other stuff, but I didn’t realize how serious it was. I didn’t know you were dealing.
(Her voice grows angry and resentful)
How was I supposed to know how much it escalated? How was I supposed to know what you were doing, what you’d done?
(She cries out, and tears start falling)
They said you (she mimics the detective’s deep voice) got caught up in one of the most dangerous and deadly drug cartels in the country.
(Back to her own voice)
They told us about the sting to take down the guy at the top. They said you were just in on the wrong drop at the wrong time. They told us that you just got caught in the crossfire. They weren’t even sure that it was one of their own that got you at first. It could have been anyone.
(beat)
But it wasn’t. It was an agent.
(She breathes deeply)
So Mom will never forget.
And never forgive.
(She fists her hands and looks down at them, and sighs)
I knew. And I didn’t say anything. Nothing, Josh. You didn’t even know that I knew. Maybe if I’d said something…
(beat)
I knew you always wanted to protect me. You were the best big brother.
(beat)
Maybe if I’d said something, if I told you what I knew…you would have stopped, you wouldn’t have gone that day. You’d still be here.
I’ll never know.
(She gets up, paces back to her bed at center stage. The spotlight eases off of her just as the stage returns to its normal, full lighting)
So you see, Josh. This is why I have to do this. If I can keep other little sisters, other Moms and other Dads from going through what we went through…
(beat)
It’ll all be worth it.
(She sets the framed picture back down on the table, making sure that it’s straight and facing front. She looks at it for a few more moments, then walks around to the other side of her bed and sits down, facing the audience.)
It’ll all be worth it.
(She wipes away the rest of the tears, and smiles)
I’m in.
I’m in and nothing can stop me. Nothing will stop me.
This is my life. My future. Mine.
(beat)
Mom can’t blame all of Quantico for the shot from that one agent. One agent. Just one. Quantico didn’t kill Josh. The FBI didn’t kill Josh. One agent killed Josh. And for what? His choices. Because no one stopped him. I didn’t stop him.
(Her voice grows urgent, she pumps her hands back and forth in front of her face to emphasize what she’s saying)
It’s not even like it was their fault. It’s not like they were aiming for you.
(break)
It was your fault!
(Her voice breaks)
Your fault. My fault.
(She straightens her spine as she sits up straight. She lifts her chin)
Well, it’s my life now. Even growing up, when Mom and Dad put me in those frilly, pink dresses and gave me nothing but Barbie dolls and play vacuums…it was never me. I never wanted to play house. I loved it when we played cops and robbers.
(beat)
Of course, you always played the cop and I always played the robber.
(She chuckles)
Funny how things work out, huh?
(She stands, walks to her bedroom door. She rests her hand on the knob and sighs)
Time to face the music.
(She turns the knob and steps out into the hall. She walks to the living room located at upstage center)
Mom, Dad. We need to talk.
No, no. Nothing’s wrong.
(Under her breath, she mutters)
Well, depending on how you look at it, I guess.
(She looks directly ahead, at a point in the front portion of the audience, as though looking her mother in the eyes)
I’m moving.
(beat)
To Virginia.
(beat)
My new life is in Virginia. I’m moving to Quantico.
(Hurriedly, she speaks)
I’ve already been accepted into the program at the academy. There’s no going back now, so you might as well accept it. I need to do this. I need it for me, I need it for Josh. If you let me, I need it for you.
(beat)
I’m sorry, Mom, but I have to do this!
(Her voice breaks)
Can’t you see?? His death broke us, it broke us! This is what I need to do to make it okay. To make it right. I’m only trying to help. Maybe if someone had helped Josh –
No, Mom! I don’t blame you. If anything, I blame myself. I blame the system. So I’m going to help the system.
Please, Mom, you have to understand –
(Tears start to fall down her face)
Don’t say that! It’s not like I’m giving up the family just to join the academy!
No, Mom, please –
(break)
Don’t make me choose!
(break)
I already got in. It’s a done deal, Mom. Please, please just be okay with it.
Dad?
Mom!
(She sobs)
Please don’t make me choose!
Josh chose, knowingly or not, and look what happened to him. It’s not their fault, Mom! They didn’t make him deal, they tried to stop him! He just got caught in the crossfire, remember? Remember!
(beat)
I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.
Mom, please –
(beat)
Please!
(She pleads)
Mooom –
(She nods as tears stream down her face)
Okay.
(She turns and starts to walk downstage right)
(She turns as she reaches the back of the stage)
Mom, just remember—
(Her voice breaks)
I love Josh and I love you. I need to do this.
(She whispers)
I’ll always be your daughter.
(She turns back and walks offstage. The lights go out)
It's super out of my element, but I'm thinking about taking the characters out and going somewhere with them, fiction wise.
We'll see.
Big Brother
(A 21 year old girl sits on her frilly pink bedspread that is placed center stage. She has her legs tucked underneath her body and is leaned back against several lacy pillows. She’s holding a piece of paper.)
“Dear Ms. Crown, this letter serves to confirm the approval of your application to the academy…”
(Her voice trails off as she simultaneously swings her legs over the side of the bed, her eyes sparkling and her voice joyous)
Haha! Too late to turn back now!
(Her voice takes an uncertain turn in tone)
Exactly. Too late to turn back now. There’s nowhere else to go but forward. Questions will have to be answered, concerns will have to be addressed, but this is it. This will be – this is my life. No matter what, this is my life.
And what a life it will be.
(She grinned)
God, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it actually happened! Quantico, Virginia, get ready for me.
(She picks up her cell phone that’s sitting just to the right of her, and answers the incoming call)
Agent Crown speaking.
(beat)
YES! I got it! The letter just came! Soooo excited!
(beat)
When do I move out? Ummm, well the letter says that training starts August first, so I think I’ll start looking for a place next month. Six months ahead should be enough, right?
(She giggles and smoothes her dress)
What?
(She sighs, bites her lower lip)
No, I haven’t told them yet. Wanna do it for me? (Her teeth flash in a quick smile)
Do I ease them into it or tell them quick like pulling off a band aid?
(beat)
You know how they feel about it.
(beat)
They refuse to even step foot there.
(She tucks her legs back up under her and sighs. She picks up a photo laying on a table to the right of her bed.)
I miss him too.
(beat)
But, look on the bright side. I’ll be home for all the holidays! And you could always come visit. It’s not the academy that’s so opposed to my parents coming.
(beat)
Yeah. Okay. Talk to you later. Love you, Nicole.
(She sets the phone down and continues to look at the framed picture. Sighs sadly.)
Oh Josh, I miss you. Mom and Dad won’t forget – they refuse to forget why you’re gone. I mean…I guess I understand that. I’ll never forget. It makes me stronger, it builds my passion, it makes me better. You understand that.
(beat)
We’re the same, Josh. You and I. Mom should be proud of that. We came from her. You were strong because of her. I’m strong because of her.
(beat)
We just happened to … do things differently.
(beat)
I’d do anything to go back to that day, or…the day before. When you were still here. When we still had you. I can still hear your laugh. I can still feel your arms around me as you hugged your little sister goodbye.
I’m not so little anymore.
(She wipes away a stray tear)
I love you, Josh. I always did and I always will. You were everything to me. My big brother, my best friend. My hero, but everything I didn’t want to be. A super hero, but a villain.
(beat)
I never understood why you chose the life you did. But I can’t help but think that you’d understand why I’m choosing this now…if you were here.
(Her voice grows angry)
Damn it, Josh! Why aren’t you here? Damn you!
(Her voice breaks)
We need you. Mom needs you. I need you.
(beat)
I need someone on my side for this.
(She chuckles at the irony)
On my side. Ha!
(She sighs deeply)
You always knew just what to say to Mom and Dad to get off in the easiest way possible. I could really use those skills right now.
(She gets up and paces to upstage right, taking the framed picture with her. The stage goes dark but for a single spotlight on her lone figure.)
I still remember that day like it was yesterday, instead of seven long years ago.
(Her voice takes on a dreamy quality as she remembers the day that changed her life forever)
It was a Monday. School had been long that day, boring. High school, what do you expect, right?
(She half-heartedly lifts her left shoulder and lets it drop)
Nicole and I were fighting because we both had a thing for the same guy.
(beat)
I don’t even remember his name.
(beat)
I was fuming about it as I walked home. I tried to call you but you didn’t answer. I needed my big brother. You always knew just what to say. I left a message. Raged about our petty little fight that was the most important thing at the time.
(beat)
If only I knew.
(She walks to upstage left with the spotlight following her and slowly eases herself to the floor, tucking her legs underneath her and resting her chin on her hands linked at the knuckles)
I knew something was off the second I got home. But I was so wrapped up in my drama with Nicole and what’s-his-name that I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t care. I dragged myself up to my room and sat down at my computer, as grumpy as could be.
(beat)
I didn’t hear the crying.
(beat)
At first.
(beat)
It wasn’t until I left my room to grab that Chunky Monkey that you left in the freezer that I heard it.
(beat)
I didn’t even understand what it was at first. It sounded like a wounded animal. A dying animal. Sometimes, I still think of it that way.
Mom died that day.
(beat)
Sure, she’s still alive. She’s still technically here. I can still go up to her and hug her, I can still hear her voice, feel her kiss. But she died that day, along with you.
(beat)
They didn’t understand. They couldn’t comprehend how this could possibly have happened to you, their wonderful son. Their perfect son. They didn’t know about it. I did. I’ll carry that with me forever. It’s on my mind all the time. It’s why I applied. It’s why I’m moving to Quantico, though Mom…
(She twirled a strand of hair between her middle and fore fingers, and looked off into the distance, past the audience)
I knew. I knew about the drugs.
(beat)
I knew you smoked, but I figured everyone did. I knew you…dabbled in other stuff, but I didn’t realize how serious it was. I didn’t know you were dealing.
(Her voice grows angry and resentful)
How was I supposed to know how much it escalated? How was I supposed to know what you were doing, what you’d done?
(She cries out, and tears start falling)
They said you (she mimics the detective’s deep voice) got caught up in one of the most dangerous and deadly drug cartels in the country.
(Back to her own voice)
They told us about the sting to take down the guy at the top. They said you were just in on the wrong drop at the wrong time. They told us that you just got caught in the crossfire. They weren’t even sure that it was one of their own that got you at first. It could have been anyone.
(beat)
But it wasn’t. It was an agent.
(She breathes deeply)
So Mom will never forget.
And never forgive.
(She fists her hands and looks down at them, and sighs)
I knew. And I didn’t say anything. Nothing, Josh. You didn’t even know that I knew. Maybe if I’d said something…
(beat)
I knew you always wanted to protect me. You were the best big brother.
(beat)
Maybe if I’d said something, if I told you what I knew…you would have stopped, you wouldn’t have gone that day. You’d still be here.
I’ll never know.
(She gets up, paces back to her bed at center stage. The spotlight eases off of her just as the stage returns to its normal, full lighting)
So you see, Josh. This is why I have to do this. If I can keep other little sisters, other Moms and other Dads from going through what we went through…
(beat)
It’ll all be worth it.
(She sets the framed picture back down on the table, making sure that it’s straight and facing front. She looks at it for a few more moments, then walks around to the other side of her bed and sits down, facing the audience.)
It’ll all be worth it.
(She wipes away the rest of the tears, and smiles)
I’m in.
I’m in and nothing can stop me. Nothing will stop me.
This is my life. My future. Mine.
(beat)
Mom can’t blame all of Quantico for the shot from that one agent. One agent. Just one. Quantico didn’t kill Josh. The FBI didn’t kill Josh. One agent killed Josh. And for what? His choices. Because no one stopped him. I didn’t stop him.
(Her voice grows urgent, she pumps her hands back and forth in front of her face to emphasize what she’s saying)
It’s not even like it was their fault. It’s not like they were aiming for you.
(break)
It was your fault!
(Her voice breaks)
Your fault. My fault.
(She straightens her spine as she sits up straight. She lifts her chin)
Well, it’s my life now. Even growing up, when Mom and Dad put me in those frilly, pink dresses and gave me nothing but Barbie dolls and play vacuums…it was never me. I never wanted to play house. I loved it when we played cops and robbers.
(beat)
Of course, you always played the cop and I always played the robber.
(She chuckles)
Funny how things work out, huh?
(She stands, walks to her bedroom door. She rests her hand on the knob and sighs)
Time to face the music.
(She turns the knob and steps out into the hall. She walks to the living room located at upstage center)
Mom, Dad. We need to talk.
No, no. Nothing’s wrong.
(Under her breath, she mutters)
Well, depending on how you look at it, I guess.
(She looks directly ahead, at a point in the front portion of the audience, as though looking her mother in the eyes)
I’m moving.
(beat)
To Virginia.
(beat)
My new life is in Virginia. I’m moving to Quantico.
(Hurriedly, she speaks)
I’ve already been accepted into the program at the academy. There’s no going back now, so you might as well accept it. I need to do this. I need it for me, I need it for Josh. If you let me, I need it for you.
(beat)
I’m sorry, Mom, but I have to do this!
(Her voice breaks)
Can’t you see?? His death broke us, it broke us! This is what I need to do to make it okay. To make it right. I’m only trying to help. Maybe if someone had helped Josh –
No, Mom! I don’t blame you. If anything, I blame myself. I blame the system. So I’m going to help the system.
Please, Mom, you have to understand –
(Tears start to fall down her face)
Don’t say that! It’s not like I’m giving up the family just to join the academy!
No, Mom, please –
(break)
Don’t make me choose!
(break)
I already got in. It’s a done deal, Mom. Please, please just be okay with it.
Dad?
Mom!
(She sobs)
Please don’t make me choose!
Josh chose, knowingly or not, and look what happened to him. It’s not their fault, Mom! They didn’t make him deal, they tried to stop him! He just got caught in the crossfire, remember? Remember!
(beat)
I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.
Mom, please –
(beat)
Please!
(She pleads)
Mooom –
(She nods as tears stream down her face)
Okay.
(She turns and starts to walk downstage right)
(She turns as she reaches the back of the stage)
Mom, just remember—
(Her voice breaks)
I love Josh and I love you. I need to do this.
(She whispers)
I’ll always be your daughter.
(She turns back and walks offstage. The lights go out)
Friday, May 13, 2011
Thirty-two Minutes
I had to write a personal narrative for my writing non fiction class of something that happened to me that changed who I am. This is what happened.
Thirty-two Minutes
The door clicked closed, ringing louder than a train’s horn coming into station. My eyes whipped open, practically expecting something chaotic to be happening in my bedroom. My heart beating wildly, I looked around, seeing nothing out of place. My clothes were just where I had left them, too tired the night before to put them in the closet where they rightfully belonged. My TV was on, still on mute, showing people moving about in a piece of paid programming, cutting up vegetables with some supposedly newly developed slicing device; their movements casting light shadows on my purple painted walls. The door to the Jack and Jill bathroom that I share with my step sister who lives in Davis was still closed. I looked at my phone and checked the time. 11:05am.
It was Wednesday, my one day off. The only day of the week that I did not have to get up at 7am to go to class or work. It was the day I gave to myself to sleep in until I would spend the day doing work for either of the two online classes I was taking. With six classes, it was hard to take them all on campus. I eased up to balance myself on my elbows and wondered how my door could possibly have closed by itself. Maybe my step mom was doing laundry, my still sleep-fogged mind wondered. As soon as the thought passed through my brain, the fog cleared. It was 11:10am.
My step mom is a teacher. She’s at school by 8am. It couldn’t possibly be her. Not yet too worried, in my mind I went through the people that lived in the house with me, wondering who could have closed, and thus opened my door. There were six of us who call that house home. My dad, my step mom, my step brother and step sister, my brother and me. It wasn’t my step mom or step sister. My dad works at a school too, so if my step mom was gone, he would be too. My brother was at school in Los Angeles, it couldn’t be him. My step brother was working…in Japan. That left me. And no other possible people who could be in the house that were supposed to be there. Chills flooded my body, tingles shooting up and down my arms and legs, as the hair on the back of my neck prickled up. As quietly as I could, I pulled back my comforter and sheet, and lowered my feet to the carpet below. With a sick feeling blooming in my stomach, I eyed my bedroom door. It was 11:15am.
I grabbed my phone and walked as fast and as quietly as I could to the bathroom I share with Emma, my step sister. Too terrified to think about anything as normal as using the bathroom, I knew it was the only place nearby that had locks on both doors. I sat Indian style, with my legs and ankles crossed on the fuzzy green bathroom mat, leaning up against the toilet that I otherwise wouldn’t touch, and kept my eyes strained on the two doors. The window in the bathroom was open, and it was a brisk day in April in Folsom, California. I was in the sweatpants and tank top that I had slept in, and I was cold. I was also too frightened to grab a sweater from my room. My room where the door had no lock. But I couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. It was 11:20am.
Gripping my phone as tightly as if it were a life line in a raging ocean in which I was drowning, I got to my feet and slowly opened the door leading back into my bedroom. It looked as normal as it did five minutes ago, ten minutes ago, ten hours ago. As breezy as it was, the sun shone brightly and lit up my room, making it look inviting and normal. I looked out my window to the backyard. The water in the pool glimmered in the sun’s light, the grass was green and ready for summer’s play only a few months away. The dogs weren’t barking, though. The dogs bark all the time, much to our neighbor’s chagrin. I looked beyond our backyard to the wetlands that our house backs up to. The walking trails were empty, the land deserted, save for a bunny hopping by, its white tail catching my eye. It was 11:23am.
Not wanting to, but knowing I had to, I moved toward my door. I stood at it, listening intently for even the slightest of sounds. Hearing nothing, I braced myself and opened the door. My room is on the second story, at the back of the house, with only my step sister’s and my brother’s rooms beyond mine. I knew they were both gone, both away at school, but my mind did not process the fact that both of their doors were open. Padding down the carpeted hallway, my socks making little to no sound, I passed the master bedroom without looking in. I crept downstairs. It was 11:27am.
My feet hit the tiled floor, and immediately the fear came rushing in new waves. My step mom is basically a clean freak. She likes to have everything in their place, and she vacuums and cleans all the time. Our house always looks perfect because of her. The hall closet door was open, the random assortment of jackets and shoes spilling out onto the tile below. Drawers were hanging open, the mess inside even messier. A window that had never been opened in the six years we have lived in this house was gone; pushed out. Rounding the island in the middle of the kitchen, I stopped just short of the missing window. There was a man’s work glove on the floor. It was 11:30am.
I ran. I ran outside, to the safety of the sidewalk outside my house. I called my dad, hoping to anything that could possibly be holy that they had someone coming to work on the house and forgot to tell me about it. They would have to be incredibly destructive workers, but I hoped. The phone rang three times, each one feeling like a minute long. When at last he answered, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My voice trembling, I asked if anyone was working on the house, as there was someone inside. His answer that, no, there was not exploded through the phone, followed by a frantic order to call the cops, then a rebuttal of him shouting he’ll call them himself. It was 11:32am.
Shivering against the breeze, I stood there and looked at the house that violated my sense of safety by being violated itself. The notable squeal of tires and whine of police sirens sounded, and I turned toward the street as four police cars sped up to where I was standing. Officer Monsoor, as he later introduced himself, strode up to me and told me to stand by his patrol car. He said that a couple of the officers were going around the back of the house to where it met the wetlands, and then he and two others stormed inside the front door with their guns drawn. It was 11:37am.
Once the police determined that the burglar was indeed gone, Officer Monsoor brought me back inside to show him just exactly what was missing, and what was out of place. Still shivering from the chill, both the literal one from the breeze and the hint of safety violation, I pointed out the drawers and the closets. We moved upstairs to the master bedroom, which was completely ransacked. There was poison in the garage, which was what kept the dogs from barking. The only room, the only space that was untouched was my room. He opened my door, saw me, and left. He didn’t touch me, but he stole my sense of safety. He didn’t violate me, but took away my sense of normalcy in my own home. In just thirty-two minutes.
Personal safety is something I had never even thought about before this day. Now I get panic attacks when I spend the night home alone. I can’t even be in my own house without feeling like it’s happening again. In thirty-two minutes, my life changed. In thirty-two minutes, I lost my sense of being safe in my own house. In thirty-two minutes, I lost my sense of being safe anywhere. The feelings I had on this day have followed me everywhere. The burglar whose face I never saw still haunts my dreams. When I’m home alone at night, every little sound is the door clicking, the start of my waking nightmare from that day last April.
The way I live has changed drastically since that day, and not all for the better. I’m afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of what goes bump in the night. I’m afraid it will go bump in the day. Again. I double and triple and quadruple check locks and doors and windows at night. I have extra locks on my bedroom door. I leave the lights on at night if I’m home alone. It’s not only unhealthy for my psychological state of being able to feel safe in my own home again, but it means the electricity bill always peaks when I’m home alone.
But I’ve also become more aware. More aware of not only my surroundings, but the people that protect my surroundings. I went on a ride along with Officer Monsoor. I got to sit up front in his patrol car with him while we patrolled Folsom. It’s an experience like no other, and allowed me to see just what Folsom’s finest does to protect. I’ve learned to not take my safety for granted, and have been taking self defense classes wherever I can find and afford them. I carry pepper spray with me wherever I go, because he who goes bump in the night can go bump anywhere, as I’ve learned. That which plagues me also protects me. My senses have heightened, as though to make up for what I didn’t hear before the burglar closed my door and woke me up. I refuse to be a victim of any sort, and so I make sure that I’m protected from what stole that sense of protection from me in the first place. All it takes is thirty-two minutes.
Thirty-two Minutes
The door clicked closed, ringing louder than a train’s horn coming into station. My eyes whipped open, practically expecting something chaotic to be happening in my bedroom. My heart beating wildly, I looked around, seeing nothing out of place. My clothes were just where I had left them, too tired the night before to put them in the closet where they rightfully belonged. My TV was on, still on mute, showing people moving about in a piece of paid programming, cutting up vegetables with some supposedly newly developed slicing device; their movements casting light shadows on my purple painted walls. The door to the Jack and Jill bathroom that I share with my step sister who lives in Davis was still closed. I looked at my phone and checked the time. 11:05am.
It was Wednesday, my one day off. The only day of the week that I did not have to get up at 7am to go to class or work. It was the day I gave to myself to sleep in until I would spend the day doing work for either of the two online classes I was taking. With six classes, it was hard to take them all on campus. I eased up to balance myself on my elbows and wondered how my door could possibly have closed by itself. Maybe my step mom was doing laundry, my still sleep-fogged mind wondered. As soon as the thought passed through my brain, the fog cleared. It was 11:10am.
My step mom is a teacher. She’s at school by 8am. It couldn’t possibly be her. Not yet too worried, in my mind I went through the people that lived in the house with me, wondering who could have closed, and thus opened my door. There were six of us who call that house home. My dad, my step mom, my step brother and step sister, my brother and me. It wasn’t my step mom or step sister. My dad works at a school too, so if my step mom was gone, he would be too. My brother was at school in Los Angeles, it couldn’t be him. My step brother was working…in Japan. That left me. And no other possible people who could be in the house that were supposed to be there. Chills flooded my body, tingles shooting up and down my arms and legs, as the hair on the back of my neck prickled up. As quietly as I could, I pulled back my comforter and sheet, and lowered my feet to the carpet below. With a sick feeling blooming in my stomach, I eyed my bedroom door. It was 11:15am.
I grabbed my phone and walked as fast and as quietly as I could to the bathroom I share with Emma, my step sister. Too terrified to think about anything as normal as using the bathroom, I knew it was the only place nearby that had locks on both doors. I sat Indian style, with my legs and ankles crossed on the fuzzy green bathroom mat, leaning up against the toilet that I otherwise wouldn’t touch, and kept my eyes strained on the two doors. The window in the bathroom was open, and it was a brisk day in April in Folsom, California. I was in the sweatpants and tank top that I had slept in, and I was cold. I was also too frightened to grab a sweater from my room. My room where the door had no lock. But I couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. It was 11:20am.
Gripping my phone as tightly as if it were a life line in a raging ocean in which I was drowning, I got to my feet and slowly opened the door leading back into my bedroom. It looked as normal as it did five minutes ago, ten minutes ago, ten hours ago. As breezy as it was, the sun shone brightly and lit up my room, making it look inviting and normal. I looked out my window to the backyard. The water in the pool glimmered in the sun’s light, the grass was green and ready for summer’s play only a few months away. The dogs weren’t barking, though. The dogs bark all the time, much to our neighbor’s chagrin. I looked beyond our backyard to the wetlands that our house backs up to. The walking trails were empty, the land deserted, save for a bunny hopping by, its white tail catching my eye. It was 11:23am.
Not wanting to, but knowing I had to, I moved toward my door. I stood at it, listening intently for even the slightest of sounds. Hearing nothing, I braced myself and opened the door. My room is on the second story, at the back of the house, with only my step sister’s and my brother’s rooms beyond mine. I knew they were both gone, both away at school, but my mind did not process the fact that both of their doors were open. Padding down the carpeted hallway, my socks making little to no sound, I passed the master bedroom without looking in. I crept downstairs. It was 11:27am.
My feet hit the tiled floor, and immediately the fear came rushing in new waves. My step mom is basically a clean freak. She likes to have everything in their place, and she vacuums and cleans all the time. Our house always looks perfect because of her. The hall closet door was open, the random assortment of jackets and shoes spilling out onto the tile below. Drawers were hanging open, the mess inside even messier. A window that had never been opened in the six years we have lived in this house was gone; pushed out. Rounding the island in the middle of the kitchen, I stopped just short of the missing window. There was a man’s work glove on the floor. It was 11:30am.
I ran. I ran outside, to the safety of the sidewalk outside my house. I called my dad, hoping to anything that could possibly be holy that they had someone coming to work on the house and forgot to tell me about it. They would have to be incredibly destructive workers, but I hoped. The phone rang three times, each one feeling like a minute long. When at last he answered, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My voice trembling, I asked if anyone was working on the house, as there was someone inside. His answer that, no, there was not exploded through the phone, followed by a frantic order to call the cops, then a rebuttal of him shouting he’ll call them himself. It was 11:32am.
Shivering against the breeze, I stood there and looked at the house that violated my sense of safety by being violated itself. The notable squeal of tires and whine of police sirens sounded, and I turned toward the street as four police cars sped up to where I was standing. Officer Monsoor, as he later introduced himself, strode up to me and told me to stand by his patrol car. He said that a couple of the officers were going around the back of the house to where it met the wetlands, and then he and two others stormed inside the front door with their guns drawn. It was 11:37am.
Once the police determined that the burglar was indeed gone, Officer Monsoor brought me back inside to show him just exactly what was missing, and what was out of place. Still shivering from the chill, both the literal one from the breeze and the hint of safety violation, I pointed out the drawers and the closets. We moved upstairs to the master bedroom, which was completely ransacked. There was poison in the garage, which was what kept the dogs from barking. The only room, the only space that was untouched was my room. He opened my door, saw me, and left. He didn’t touch me, but he stole my sense of safety. He didn’t violate me, but took away my sense of normalcy in my own home. In just thirty-two minutes.
Personal safety is something I had never even thought about before this day. Now I get panic attacks when I spend the night home alone. I can’t even be in my own house without feeling like it’s happening again. In thirty-two minutes, my life changed. In thirty-two minutes, I lost my sense of being safe in my own house. In thirty-two minutes, I lost my sense of being safe anywhere. The feelings I had on this day have followed me everywhere. The burglar whose face I never saw still haunts my dreams. When I’m home alone at night, every little sound is the door clicking, the start of my waking nightmare from that day last April.
The way I live has changed drastically since that day, and not all for the better. I’m afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of what goes bump in the night. I’m afraid it will go bump in the day. Again. I double and triple and quadruple check locks and doors and windows at night. I have extra locks on my bedroom door. I leave the lights on at night if I’m home alone. It’s not only unhealthy for my psychological state of being able to feel safe in my own home again, but it means the electricity bill always peaks when I’m home alone.
But I’ve also become more aware. More aware of not only my surroundings, but the people that protect my surroundings. I went on a ride along with Officer Monsoor. I got to sit up front in his patrol car with him while we patrolled Folsom. It’s an experience like no other, and allowed me to see just what Folsom’s finest does to protect. I’ve learned to not take my safety for granted, and have been taking self defense classes wherever I can find and afford them. I carry pepper spray with me wherever I go, because he who goes bump in the night can go bump anywhere, as I’ve learned. That which plagues me also protects me. My senses have heightened, as though to make up for what I didn’t hear before the burglar closed my door and woke me up. I refuse to be a victim of any sort, and so I make sure that I’m protected from what stole that sense of protection from me in the first place. All it takes is thirty-two minutes.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Hey Stranger
I almost can't even believe how long it's been since I so much as looked at this. A testament to how busy my life has been. Proof that this was, indeed, the best choice I've ever made. I can't believe I'm in the final quarter of my first year at UCSD (not including the summer session that I'll be staying for). It's almost unfathomable that I've lived here for over seven months. I've always believed that home is where the people I love are, and yet none of them are here, and this is home.
I can't even remember if I've said this before, but if I have, I feel the need to reiterate. I will forever be grateful for moving here, more specifically into this apartment. My roommate is my best friend. She is amazing. I love her more than I thought would be possible of finding a roommate off of Craigslist.
We got lost together in Gaslamp last night, and it was fun because it was with her. <3
Although my feet are killing me, but... worth it.
My course load right now is crazy, so free time doesn't come often. I'm here now because I'm procrastinating writing a research paper that's due Tuesday. It is, however, only two pages, which is both easier and harder. What to write, what to write.
I'm taking 16 units of Lit courses, which in itself is daunting, as I've found over and over. I have two upper div Lit courses, which basically entails reading a book a week for each. Then I have two writing courses, with a paper due a weekish. One has a 5-7 page paper due every other week, with quizzes the weeks they're not due; the other has a two page paper due every week. But it can only be two pages, and when writing a story, that is not the easiest thing to do. I pretty much have to write a five page story and narrow it down to two.
Just another step in the right direction.
Just another step toward my dreams.
Well, at least that's what I tell myself when I'm buried in work.
Heh.
I'll be back soon, hopefully.
I can't even remember if I've said this before, but if I have, I feel the need to reiterate. I will forever be grateful for moving here, more specifically into this apartment. My roommate is my best friend. She is amazing. I love her more than I thought would be possible of finding a roommate off of Craigslist.
We got lost together in Gaslamp last night, and it was fun because it was with her. <3
Although my feet are killing me, but... worth it.
My course load right now is crazy, so free time doesn't come often. I'm here now because I'm procrastinating writing a research paper that's due Tuesday. It is, however, only two pages, which is both easier and harder. What to write, what to write.
I'm taking 16 units of Lit courses, which in itself is daunting, as I've found over and over. I have two upper div Lit courses, which basically entails reading a book a week for each. Then I have two writing courses, with a paper due a weekish. One has a 5-7 page paper due every other week, with quizzes the weeks they're not due; the other has a two page paper due every week. But it can only be two pages, and when writing a story, that is not the easiest thing to do. I pretty much have to write a five page story and narrow it down to two.
Just another step in the right direction.
Just another step toward my dreams.
Well, at least that's what I tell myself when I'm buried in work.
Heh.
I'll be back soon, hopefully.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Need
I write. But I'm not a writer. Or, I haven't been. I've always been told that all writers always keep a notebook with them for whenever the need arises to write something down. I've never kept one. I never really understood the need.
Or, I didn't until a few nights ago, when in the middle of a hit of anxiety (credit to the burglary), I needed to write. But I didn't have anything to write on. I grabbed my phone and wrote it out on the 'Inkpad', but it's not the same as having a pen in my hand. The next day, I bought a notebook and a new pen.
Here's my first entry:
I am the ocean. The ocean is me. While I am not literally the ocean, I see in the ocean what I crave to see in myself, what I should see in myself, what is in myself. I see it in the untamed rawness that is the ocean. I see it in the wildness. I see it in the wild beauty of something that cannot be contained, not by words nor by humans. I see it in the everlasting notion that the ocean remains untouched, despite how hard humankind has tried to claim ownership. It is independent. It is courageous. It is beautiful. It is free. I am the ocean. The ocean is me.
A step in the right direction.
Or, I didn't until a few nights ago, when in the middle of a hit of anxiety (credit to the burglary), I needed to write. But I didn't have anything to write on. I grabbed my phone and wrote it out on the 'Inkpad', but it's not the same as having a pen in my hand. The next day, I bought a notebook and a new pen.
Here's my first entry:
I am the ocean. The ocean is me. While I am not literally the ocean, I see in the ocean what I crave to see in myself, what I should see in myself, what is in myself. I see it in the untamed rawness that is the ocean. I see it in the wildness. I see it in the wild beauty of something that cannot be contained, not by words nor by humans. I see it in the everlasting notion that the ocean remains untouched, despite how hard humankind has tried to claim ownership. It is independent. It is courageous. It is beautiful. It is free. I am the ocean. The ocean is me.
A step in the right direction.
Monday, January 31, 2011
My apologies...
for it being so long since I've posted. I seem to have lost myself in the crazy that is my life. It's the most wonderful thing. Somehow it is already week five again, and I have NO IDEA how that happened. Absolutely no idea. It excites me, but it also makes me sad that everything is going by so fast. I never want this to end.
Life is good. No, life is great. Life is every possible positive adjective. I may not have everything I've ever wanted, but I see the possibilities arising, and I understand the potential in myself to go after everything I've ever wanted and more. More because, at 20, I don't know everything I'll ever want, and I wouldn't want to know now. Or, I just want it all.
I went to the ocean today. I know that sounds weird, because most people will say that they went to the beach. But I went to the ocean. The ocean is what brought me here in the first place. It's what touched my soul, challenging me to take what I wanted. It's what grabs me, presses away my fears until all I have left is me. The ocean leaves me bare. It's strong despite being touched by humanity. It's a survivor, and it exudes ferocity and contentedness. The ocean supports me when I'm not sure I can support myself. It's wild, and it's free, and exactly what my soul needs. It's exactly what I need.
I'm not perfect. Not by a long shot. But then, no one is, so why bother comparing myself to something that isn't real? Perfection exists in other ways. The love I have for my family. The perception of animals. The friend you know you can tell anything to. Love that lasts a lifetime. Finally understanding your potential. Dreaming for the impossible. Playing in the waves.
Life is more than a walk in the park. But sometimes, life is a walk on the beach. Or rather, a walk by the ocean.
Life is good. No, life is great. Life is every possible positive adjective. I may not have everything I've ever wanted, but I see the possibilities arising, and I understand the potential in myself to go after everything I've ever wanted and more. More because, at 20, I don't know everything I'll ever want, and I wouldn't want to know now. Or, I just want it all.
I went to the ocean today. I know that sounds weird, because most people will say that they went to the beach. But I went to the ocean. The ocean is what brought me here in the first place. It's what touched my soul, challenging me to take what I wanted. It's what grabs me, presses away my fears until all I have left is me. The ocean leaves me bare. It's strong despite being touched by humanity. It's a survivor, and it exudes ferocity and contentedness. The ocean supports me when I'm not sure I can support myself. It's wild, and it's free, and exactly what my soul needs. It's exactly what I need.
I'm not perfect. Not by a long shot. But then, no one is, so why bother comparing myself to something that isn't real? Perfection exists in other ways. The love I have for my family. The perception of animals. The friend you know you can tell anything to. Love that lasts a lifetime. Finally understanding your potential. Dreaming for the impossible. Playing in the waves.
Life is more than a walk in the park. But sometimes, life is a walk on the beach. Or rather, a walk by the ocean.
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