I talk to you in my dreams. You’re here with me. We sit down in two armchairs across from each other. I can hear you. But you have to go. So I’ll write you a note on top of these sausages in this takeout box. But ink doesn’t work on the sausages. You’ve already left and I’ll find you again in another scene. It’s so hard to hear because the trumpets are blaring outside in that large open field. I forgot to feed the cats. I better get home. I’m going to run through this forest until I get there. Only, it’s not a forest, it’s actually a sewer system. I’m underground and there are rats everywhere. My feet are filthy. I see a ladder, if I hold onto it, it’ll turn into a hot air ballon. I’m flying now, and I’ll get home in 20 minutes if this balloon goes where I think it’s going. I’m going to let go of the balloon now, so I can fall to the floor of my bedroom. I’ll close my eyes tight so I don’t feel the drop. My neighbor sits with me on the bed and taps my forehead, doing acupressure on it. He says he just got married and there will be a party soon. His wife is from Ireland, and I’ve never met her before. I’m so tired and I know the kids and I will be going to the beach soon. Just five more minutes of sleep. There are 20 people in my apartment and the bride doesn’t want to talk about getting married. I want to sleep, but they won’t let me and the bride isn’t wearing any pants. I run out of my house and I’m stuck in a map of Queens. I can’t get out of it. I know the beach is close though. If I follow the trail I’ll get there.
I defined my significance by how much you noticed me, when in fact I am here regardless. I scream and I can hear myself even if you’re holding your ears. Nothing will change unless you let go and look me in the eyes. Tell me I meant nothing to you, because from your actions that is what I feel.
I’m not lonely. I’m content in seeing myself for who I am. My invisibility is subjective to you. My existence is not predicated upon your approval.
I have this spark and nobody can take it away from me. I’m a writer, it’s what I do. It doesn’t matter if anyone acknowledges my talent, because I know that I can write. Sometimes I doubt myself; we all do.
Doubt doesn’t make my talent go away. Doubt cloaks my talent. Doubt hides the fact that I can write. The fact remains – I am a writer and my words make magical imprints on a page. They dance and punch people in the face sometimes. My words are real, true, tearful and happy, but not all at once.
Nobody can take my words away from me.
You have a spark. Your spark makes you you. No matter how hard they try, nobody can take that spark away from you. Dance, sing, play video games or take computers apart. You are good at any of those things or all of them.
Love your spark. Realize your talent and keep it close. It’s real. You’re real.
I find that I say things and people don’t listen to me. I don’t know if this is a recent phenomenon or cultural one. I think it’s the latter. It seems that people are talking and others are not listening to them. Think about it; when someone is talking to you are you listening or are you waiting for your chance to interject? I struggle with waiting for my turn because I have ADHD. I work very hard to try to listen to what the person on the other end is saying to me. Sometimes I fail and I interrupt them. It frustrates me and most likely it frustrates them.
I don’t want to tell you what to do. I don’t need to tell you what to do. I’m going to tell myself what to do. Sarah, stop waiting to speak and just listen. What is the person you are with saying to you? What do you hear?
Reflect back to them what they just said to you. Maybe if I become a better listener people listen to me.
Life is a series of stories that never finish.
Half ended sentences
People who come into your life only to leave when it doesn’t serve them or you anymore.
That’s what life is.
It doesn’t make sense for the most part and when it does the shoe is dangling in the air getting ready to drop.
I’ve watched the same show over and over again.
I’ve made the same mistake multiple times.
You’d think I would have learned by now.
maybe you aren’t thinking about me at all.
You’re thinking of you and that’s fine, because we have to look out for ourselves.
It’s 3am and all I want to do is sleep but I just wrote this since it was in my head.
There’s nothing like not writing. I feel the pressure of wanting to say something profound, but all the thoughts in my head are angry or depressing. I want to be hilarious.
Hey, what she wrote there, that was hilarious!
Humor is subjective, we know this, but I want to be funny damn it. All the things I could write about I’ve already covered a million times and I’m tired of exaggerating. It’s all getting old. I’m writing this word vomit because I don’t know what else to do. There hasn’t been anything on here in a while. Why are you still reading this? Go watch Netflix or eat a donut. Oh, you’re still reading this because I’m still writing words.
I’m fixated on the way things are supposed to be and there’s so supposed to be. It just is.
I just sneezed. I thought you should know that.
I had a dream I wrote you a letter. I kept trying to write your name. It wasn’t working. Then I tried to write you how I felt. But the ink turned to glittery gelatinous glue and melted into the page. I read somewhere once that you can’t read words in dreams. I knew what I wanted to say to you but I couldn’t write the words. In the dream I missed your call. I called you back at seven in the morning.
“Hey, I’m sorry I missed your call.” I said, my voice scratchy from just waking up.
“I called you three days ago. I’m getting ready for work now.” You said, annoyed.
It was too late. I was too late. We were too late for each other. I couldn’t find a sink to wash my hands in.
I’m not dreaming anymore and it’s the same story. I still can’t find the words and my eyes hurt from crying and reading and missing parts of myself and you.
I’ll write that letter one day. I’ll mail it or burn it. I’m not sure which one. I’ll let you know or maybe I won’t, because I don’t have the words.