shootingstar2428

We're hostages on a runaway train and there's no getting off. The wheels started turning lifetimes ago: they were voiceless and insidious. No crying wheels or screaming horns warned us of the stolen days to come. In fact, we never even knew we were moving until it was too late. No refunds or exchanges, here. Though I don't know where we started, the dark voices of my mind whisper to me where we'll end. Sometimes, brilliant yellows flicker across our faces, their warmth blinding us, making us forget, giving us hope— But night invariably follows, swallowing Hope with all of her feathers. The once-ebony darkness has grown dull: sti

I believe in the power of words to change the world and to change yourself. I believe that one smile can alter a day, a week, even a life, perhaps. I believe that true friendship can transcend time and place. I believe in Internet dating and shattering preconceived notions. I believe that Gatsby never truly had a chance with Daisy, that the green light was red all along. I believe that money can buy happiness, but only temporarily. I believe in second chances, but not in forgive and forget. I believe in having regrets and accepting them as a part of who I am today. I believe all things happen for a reason, although we may not

I am the Queen of Doubt. I don't know when it was that I stopped believing in fairy tales and happy endings, but I know that every night I go to sleep with the fear that one day I will wake up on the eve of my death alone. I find myself wondering why others love me and hate myself for tricking people into thinking I am worthy of love using a convincing guise of confidence and success. I can make a list of my accomplishments but it doesn't change the fact that some days, I would give up so much to just change who I am. I want to be sure about something, anything; I want to stop separating the world into lists of pros and cons

I saw them from a distance: your friends, here, at the home of all my intentional mistakes, renamed regrets. Regressing to my former self, the girl you created, I fixed my hair, sucked in my waist, laughed artificially at an untold joke. I stood tall, confident, determined to show them (in case they happened to look) I was beautiful, happy, without You. I remembered the nights of premeditated drunkenness: the only way I could forgive myself for loving you in the morning. I remembered the days of self-doubt and self-loathing: your words: "It's not like I want to marry you." I remembered crossing over into numbing indiffer

today, her chair is empty. we are reading Of Mice and Men, debating the existence of The American Dream, and she, she is under the bleachers with a boy determined to prove that some dreams do in fact come cheap. but what happens when she figures out that the world is full of illusions and truth is a mirror that turns us all into martyrs? oh, happy dagger, this is thy sheath. tomorrow, her chair may be full but she will weep over Lennie's death, knowing too well what it's like to give up everything for the empty shell-casings of love.

Selling your soul doesn't hurt as much if you do it piece by piece. Like Fitzgerald, I have dragged myself to Hell and back just to feel Something just to write until my fingers bleed letters, black and red. I have martyred myself, forgiven indecisiveness, and seduced Pain just to spill Anguish onto a page and call her my own. When the storm clouds subside, I know the quiet can't last for long. I will chase the storms until they destroy me. I will find Plato's cave, chain myself to the wall, and watch the shadows dance until I forget why I should leave, until Light is just a distant memory.

Dear America, When I decided to go into teaching almost ten years ago, society generally regarded a career in education as a noble and worthy profession.  To teach was to influence and affect the future for the better, and was therefore considered one of the most important jobs in society. But not long after I had started my first year of teaching, I noticed a distinct and unsettling change in public perceptions of and attitudes toward the career I had worked so hard to attain and was working even harder to perform.  Phrases like "glorified babysitter" and "cushy job" were like bullets shot into my heart.  When

3/21/12 Me: Homeowner. Breathe in, Breathe out. 2/15/11 My daily tug-of-war: Nostalgia           versus                   Faith.

You never think when you're floating down the aisle glowing in white that "till death do us part" is any more than just words or a flickering apparition of a far-away future. You never think that Goodbye could arrive tomorrow. You never think when you're looking at your students' faces, still untouched by the world, counting in unison one, two, three that it will be the first and last time you teach this lesson. You never think that your own days are numbered: three two one. You never think when you discover that lump on your breast trespassing on what is yours, on what has always been yours, that it's possibl