My Life Starts Over

me in a random selection of words

Overwhelmed

I’m ashamed. It’s been 4 months since I’ve written: sat down, put my thoughts together, then typed them into something I’m proud of. I just don’t have the motivation. I don’t know if it is because I’ve lost interest, courage or ideas. Not having time has been my excuse, but I know that is not true. Maybe I’m still trying to figure out if I want to be a writer anymore. Is that weird? Having to decide whether or not you want to write. Something that used to be simple to me is now a mystery, lost in the mess that fogs my brain.

Recently, I decided to pursue a career in web development. I’ve dabbled in the past, but it wasn’t until a couple of months ago I decided to really get into it. I like it, but I’m also overwhelmed with . . . with life, I guess. Am I good at it? Am I going to slow? Am I doing enough? To keep myself motivated (and because I’m having a difficult time understanding), I joined a JavaScript class. I’ve also been Google searching and trolling social media to find a mentor. I want some insight into the world of Front-end web development that you can’t get from a Google search.

There is so much I want to do with my life and I feel like I’m not pushing myself hard enough. Yea, I’m tired when I get home from my 9 – 5 that I hate, but shouldn’t that motivate me even more to do everything in my power to make my goals? I guess I’m scared I won’t stick to it like everything else I’ve tried to do: production assistant, screenwriter, journalist, blogger, etc.

I’ve planned a trip to San Diego, random? Yes. I’ve never been and I figured why the hell not. Maybe it will help me find my way or maybe it will be a huge waste of money. Either way, at least I can say I went.

Anyone who reads this know of a programmer in San Diego, let me know! I would love to interview them for my website.

Dream

I had a dream a while ago and decided I could use the dream to write. Here goes:

One by one we jump into the gaping hole. Our wet suits protect us from the corrosive water. We swim down the abyss, making sure not to veer off course. You could get lost in this place without the right equipment. Exploring new sites is usually dangerous; however, this is a Beta site: it had already been explored and cleared for study classes like mine. The silent darkness surrounds us. Not even the sound of the breaths we take through our oxygen masks can reach our ears. I love this part. This moment of quiet makes me feel like I’m floating through time. I don’t feel or think, just glide through nothingness and hope it never ends.

As we swim further down, I can see the bottom of a large mass of land, holding new life and mysteries. The water becomes a clearer purple and the water pressure eases more and more. Climbing out of the water and onto land is painful for some: your eyes burn, your body aches, and you have to get used to gravity again. Swimming to new sites can take anywhere from five minutes to an hour. The propulsion device on our backs makes the journey easier to handle. Because of the corrosive water, we carry only the things we need most and keep them in a case made out of super-strength propylene plastic.

“OK, everyone,” Mayia pulls the cap of her white wetsuit off her head. All instructors must wear white to make them more visible in the water. “Once you get your gear from the case, make sure you code in the date and the site number into your scanners,” she pulls her red hair up into a bun and unzips a little of the zippers on her wetsuit.

I double tap the watch on my wrist. The watch unfolds and expands to cover my entire forearm. “Scanner login number 547316,” I say to my arm. The screen greets me with a bubble background and a winking smiley face. “Date: September 6, 3075, site number 35,” the screen inputs the date and site number then switches to a blank page for my notes. I finally look up from my arm and see, everything. The sky is a lavender blanket, fluffy, but with no clouds. A forest is ahead of me. The tree trunks are swirls of yellow and purple with orange moss surrounding the base. Their leaves grey and litter the forest ground. The soft grass is blue and grows around my feet with each step I take. The air leaves a sweet taste in my mouth and my fingertips tingle.

“Hey, Raeia,” Kaiyu’s voice drifts into my ears and I’m jolted from my trance. “What is the site number?”

“547316.” I turn away from the forest to look at Kaiyu. His dark blue wetsuit hugs his thin frame, conforming to his muscles. His brown hair is slick back and resting on his shoulders. I didn’t know much about him even though we’ve had classes together before.

“547396?”

“No,” I face the water and walk towards him, “54731…” Looking behind Kaiyu, I see a hand, an unprotected hand, reach out of the water. “Mayia,” I yell as loud as I can and run to the water. I could hear Mayia yelling orders behind me to the other students. Without thinking, I grab the reaching hand with both of my bare hands and start to pull. The hand is slimy and I can barely hold on. I brace myself for the excruciating burning sensation I should feel from the water. Kaiyu grabs my waist and pulls me back. Another hand reaches out of the water and slams onto the ground. Mayia and two students run over with a metal case. They put it down next to me and pull the hose from the middle. A head, torso, legs, and feet come onto land and curls into a ball. Mayia immediately sprays the naked body with the cold alcohol mixture. The mix helps to stop the burning and washes away the corrosive water. I sit motionless on the sandy ground, staring at something that shouldn’t be alive. Her body is slender and twitching. Her black hair is long with pink roots.

“Raeia! Raeia!” Kaiyu grabs my arms and starts to pull them to the stream of alcohol mix. “What the fuck?” Kaiyu gasps staring at my hands. I look down at them and, nothing. No burn, no wound, not even a mark—just my hands.

Only when I’m Angry

Apparently, I write only when I’m pissed off or frustrated. It’s like I have no motivation or inspiration when things are going well. That sucks. Or maybe I’m not trying hard enough? I feel like my best work comes out when I’m angry. It’s like magic; I become enlightened and the most perfect words flow out of my finger tips as I type. All of my thoughts and feelings fill the page and then I feel better. Why can’t that happen every time I try to write? Instead, my brain gets bogged down with empty. Thick, heavy empty takes the place of thought.

Even when I was in school the only time I wrote was when someone told me. Whether for a class assignment or an activity, I could come up with the most wild stories. My best work comes from when I was in high school. Poetry has never been my thing, but I was able to create my own collection in college. The pressure of a deadline and good grades helped me write. I don’t have that anymore. My boyfriend has tried to help by giving me a deadline and consequences, but that never worked.

I need that feeling of urgency or maybe I’m not pushing myself hard enough. Well clearly I’m not doing that. I fell out of love with writing. After all these years of not trying and telling myself I’ve lost the talent, it’s hard to get back into the swing of things. I have to get over the myth that writers are inspired by everything all the time, but I also don’t want to lose my focus.

I guess I have to try something different.

Love…

 

In the past seven years, my relationships have taught me more than I could ever from my parents, school, friends, books, anything. I’ve become a better person and met amazing people I probably would have never met under different circumstances. The most important thing I’ve learned about is Love.

Love is complicated. It’s a lot of things: stupid, confusing, spontaneous, frustrating, beautiful, surprising, but most of all, complicated. I think I hate it. Not because I’m afraid I’ll lose it, but because it can take so much out of a person. Constantly giving yourself (with the possibility of getting hurt), always feeling crazy and second guessing yourself. Are these supposed to be the things that make love fun? Being so crazy with love that you just let it engulf you. Maybe at first, but after a while you can lose yourself. Or are you supposed to lose yourself and become a completely different person? Someone you don’t recognize. Maybe if you become a better person. You stop throwing things during an argument or learn more about your sexuality. But is that enough?

There’s a fine line you must always walk: between compromise and selfishness, the whole truth or white lies; it’s dizzying. In romantic comedies, everything falls perfectly into place at the end and you never see the happy couple hate each other. In real life, nothing ever falls into place; you just deal with it and hope things change. Doing the right thing and trying to be even a little perfect—if there is such a thing as perfect—is impossible.

What if you communicate with, trust, and love your significant other completely, but things still go wrong? How do you really know when to just walk away? When you start questioning it? You could take a break, but does that ever solve anything? Wouldn’t that just mean one step closer to breaking up, to giving up?

How much trust, communication, honesty, and perfect can you have before everything is right?

Random Thoughts: Selfish

The most difficult part about a relationship is not being selfish. I can communicate all day, jealousy is not a problem, the trust is there, but my selfish tendencies keep sneaking up on me. The want for something so bad is a burn in my chest. When something doesn’t go my way, it makes me sad. I know, I sound like a baby, but it’s true. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t get rid of it.

Long distance relationships carries surprises (not the exact word I want to use, oh well). No matter how much you plan or how far ahead of time you prepare, something always goes wrong, and there is nothing you can do about it. I’ve developed a “it’s not going to happen” mentality just so I’ll be prepared for the worse. It doesn’t always work. When we make plans that have to be cancelled last minute because his job decided they wanted to be assholes, my selfishness flares up and I become this pouty baby again. I hate it. I hate his job. I hate loving him.

Your Words

You’ve always known how to use your words

thanks to the way you were raised.

You’re eloquent speech makes you stand out

from the background that surrounded you

Now you use those words to pass on your wisdom

reveal hate, stupidity, the obvious.

You also use those words to hurt

the one person who is always there for you.

You don’t see it.

You think it’s normal.

She cries to herself, while you feel justified,

a winner.

Your words burn more than anything else.

You don’t see it.

You say she hates it when you’re happy,

but it’s the opposite.

When she twirls, dances, and sings not so perfect,

it angers you and you defend it.

You treat her like a child.

As if she’s some annoying little brat you can’t stand to be around.

So, she stays quiet. To you that’s petty.

I can’t get it right.

Keep busy and work, wrong.

Be happy and twirl, wrong.

I’m not normal enough for you,

and you can’t handle it.

You hate everything I do,

and wonder why I stiffen when you touch me.

Why I stay in my room while you enjoy your laughter.

Avoid the Comment Section

I had planned on posting a poem, but my encounter with this random lady on a website was so ridiculous to me. I just had to talk about it.

Yesterday, a website posted this picture:

men-in-heels

Of course the author of this article was appalled by this picture:

“Cut it out. Seriously. We don’t wanna hear all that crap about ‘self-expression’ and being ‘in touch with your feminine side.’ Men can learn to understand women by TALKING to them, NOT by wearing their clothes!”

Mind you, I don’t even think they read the article since no excerpts from the magazine were posted on the site. Usually, I stay far away from comments because people are stupid and I hate the ridiculous arguments that develop; however, this time for whatever reason I decided it would be OK make a quick comment. I said, “I get what they’re trying to do. It’s funny to me.” I understood the point of the cover. It was meant to be funny. No, understanding a woman is not a joke, but this cover was meant to lighten up the mood, get your attention, and make you want to read the article. Apparently, not everyone felt that way.

A woman felt the need to reply to my small, minute comment:

“Let the record reflect that wearing a head wrap does not signify one being conscious anymore. They start with the heels, then add a strand of pearls, followed by a skirt, then lipstick and nail polish. Next stop, a maxi pad on a pair of panties. I find no humor in that. If a man wants to learn what a woman experiences, there are better ways to study her than wearing heels.”

What? I sat in front of my computer just staring at the screen. I was baffled, but her comment made me chuckle, a lot. I didn’t even think anyone would notice my little comment. Maybe because it was short she felt comfortable with replying. I responded:

“I don’t think they are trying to be literal: “Hey! Throw on some heels and you’ll understand a woman’s struggle!” It’s just a picture showing the saying “Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.”

DUH! Why would anyone take this magazine cover so seriously? I thought it would end there, but oh no, of course it didn’t. She came back:

“All women don’t wear heels. Heels can symbolize a tool of oppression for women. Heels don’t do anything but break down your body. If you knew how the bones in your feet are, you’d realize the damage you can do long term by wearing heels on a daily basis. Women in the 70s and 80s wore skirts or dresses and heels to work because they were required to. Many of those women had to have corrective surgery to fix their toes or even knee surgery because of their prolonged wearing of heels. If you want to walk a mile in MY shoes, you better buy some Gucci loafers. I don’t do corns, bunions or callouses.”

What? What! Really lady? Are you being absolutely serious right now? I guarantee, every single woman on this planet, at one time or another, has worn heels. If you find the right heels, they won’t hurt your back or give you—bleh—on your feet (sorry I just can’t type those words). Do you really think the person who set up the photo shoot really thought “Heels mean oppression, corrective surgery, and ugly feet. Let’s put these men in heels to show they understand the woman’s infinite struggle with heels!” Using the heels was a general way of saying “walk a mile. . .” and to make the cover funny. She mention Gucci loafers just to make herself sound good I guess.

The most unimportant things are offensive now. People have arguments and debates over the dumbest things. Meanwhile, not enough people are talking about the racism and prejudice too many people have to endure each day. I don’t mean models wearing African garb on the runway. I mean kids being arrested while waiting for a school bus to their basketball game. Not enough people are talking about our failing educational system or the fact that America has all this money, while all these people are living on the streets. No most people are focusing on being faux intellectuals, rather than being a better human being. Am I wrong?

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