Merry Christmas Ryan

Why haven't you left?
I can't understand it.
As we've grown, we've parted and strayed from home, you only seem to love me more. How is it possible?
When oceans of people have faded away before you, crashing into my life and disappearing back into the sea just as quickly... Here you stand.
You alone have remained constant.
You alone have remained.
I love you for it.
I don't need their company. I don't need their love. Their hate will suffice, will do just fine.
But you...
You've thrown a wrench into everything I've known here. Into all the little plans I've made. You skipped the clouds gliding past and became a star. One that I can see and love every night, no matter the distance between us.
I don't understand it.
You know me.
I've given you my rose because you alone understand what it means. You alone understand that I expect to be alone. The rose that you've held in your hand is my permission for you to walk away. And yet you stay.
I've let you in. I can't say why or when it happened, only that it did. I love you dearly, like I've loved only a few before. But unlike before, it is without reservation. I love you wholly and completely. I love who you are and what you stand for. I love you Ryan.
You're here. I can't say why, but you care and you show it. That means so much more than the world to me. The world could never understand the two of us. We were meant for bigger things than the world can comprehend. You and I, I think, were made for the stars.

I am living a lie.
It is the hardest, most selfish thing that I have ever done.
I have no choice. 

A quick explanation

I'm angry. You've probably noticed.
I'm angry at the world, at God, at religion in general. At the hypocrites who smile and lie to my face. At every "holier than thou" who dares assume that I am a sinner and a fool.
I had my Faith. I believed in it all. All I wanted was a confirmation. We're supposed to ask if it's true. We're supposed to know for ourselves. That's all I wanted. Isn't that a good thing? Weeks came and went. I lived life perfectly. I had never tried so hard. I had never been more humble. I had never wanted anything so badly. No answer came. Fine. In the Lord's own time.
Then I saw the Burning Woman. Her very existence burst open the floodgate of question that I had ignored my whole life. Truth became the pressing issue of my time. What is true? I didn't understand so, where was my thinking flawed? How did it all fit into His plan?
I prayed. I read. I attended every meeting and took scrupulous notes. There was never a child so sincere. All I needed was the truth.
Soon, with acknowledgment of the questions came the realization of the discrepancies. I believed differently than the church on some issues. Puzzled, still waiting for my answers, and confused, I threw myself into prayer. In daily conversations with God I pondered and wondered why he was silent. A simple word from him would clear up all my confusion. A single word.
No answer came. Fine. In the Lord's own time.
But the Lord waited too long.
By nature of who I am, I discovered new truth's about my own beliefs  The church and I disagree. God and I disagree.
As my soul was wracked with torture, as I cried out to him every night and waited in agony for his reply, doubt introduced itself to me.
I writhed in horror when I saw it's face. It was a monster that I had been warned against. I begged God for his aid in fighting this enemy. No relief came.
Eventually my hope waned. I became dejected. I could not understand the contradictions that had become apparent in my life. I was left alone and Doubt had his way with me. Even then I prayed. Even then I searched the scriptures for answers to the questions that would not leave me be.
Where was God in all this?
I read that if anyone lacked wisdom he could ask of God, who gives to all men liberally/ I knew that I lacked wisdom. I knew that I had pleaded to God for strength and for answers. I knew that I had received nothing in return.
After many months I was introduced to anger.
Was I not good enough for God? Everyone seemed to be getting answers all around me. Everyone else was happy. Everyone else had figured it all out. God had helped them all. I decided that God must not care about me. I must not be Good enough for Him.
I hope that is a realization that none of you will ever come to. There is no pain that I have ever experienced that comes close. Believing that you are worthless to the being that supposedly created you... there are no words for that pain.
One day I realized something the changed my life: I'm a good person! I do good things, I want good things! I am not unworthy of anything. I am honest and intelligent and kind. But above it all, I am GOOD.
God would not reject me. Therefore, I decided to stop believing in a God.
That was not the easiest choice. I've  come to realize that in my life it would be much easier for me to pretend, to put on a smile and get over it. To act like everyone else and delude myself into happiness. I could be content living that lie.
But I could not feel joy.
I let go of that God and for the first time in years I felt JOY. There was no more guilt, no more shame. I was finally free to breathe and to live my life. For the first time in a very long time, I have the capacity for tremendous joy.
The anger comes from remembering. The anger comes when I am forced to bite my tongue and remain silent in the presence of those who have sacrificed their logic to their faith. The anger comes from watching others try and force feed me the guilt that I have forsaken. I will not be one of them. I will not give up logic and reason to a faith that has never brought me anything but pain.
Obviously, there were other factors that led me to this choice in life. But these are the ones that had to do singularly with me. As important as the other reasons are, these are more personal and I feel the need to share these with you.
This is my explanation. Not because I feel the need to explain  myself or to justify my actions, but because I have kept them in for so long. I am stuck living a lie with no escape. No way out. In some way I hope this will be discovered and then I can end it all and finally tell the truth.
I am no longer a Mormon.
I do not believe in God.
I am extraordinarily moral.
I am a good person.

And nothing can take that away from me. My convictions are such that I will bear the judgments of this society. Because I'm right. For once in my life I know that I am right. 

A life of worth

I hear the words. I want what's right. I hear about all of the warmth and light that supposedly comes from God. I bend my prideful knees to pray, but the words ring false in my ears. I want good things, it true. But the voice of the burning woman echoes in my mind. The smiling monsters linger behind my eyes as I try and cry to the God that created them.
I muster up the faith I need in order to see the miracles that will confirm my faith. But maybe I do not have enough. Maybe the miracles do not exist. I do not know. I do not know the difference anymore. They cite and quote and preach at me, throwing words like daggers, shoving sugary scriptures down my throat, thick and numbing like a syrup. I want to believe. I try and turn off my brain, bar the thoughts that scream "no" and accept the illogical, rely on faith.
I can't. I'm not strong enough. I don't have the faith. I am faithless. Godless.
"We must be worthy!" They howl and throw their arms to the skies, proclaiming their own filth. "We are not worthy!" They moan and rub their faces into the dirt. Without the help of the divine, they will never know how to love who they are. Will never believe they are worthy.
They see me. I stand straight and tall. I know nothing, but want everything. I believe not what they believe. I believe that I am good. Worthy. They spit on me. As they smile. Their hands pull on my clothing, beckoning me to the dirt.
"It is a sin to love yourself." They croon and tears stream down my cheeks. I want to be worthy. But not this way. Not in the grime and the muck. I am reaching for the skies. The stars are my goal. How can I reach them by groveling in the mud? I do not understand. Neither do the bodies flopping in the grime.
This is my crime. I want goodness. As they teach. But I am incapable of understanding their methods. Why can I achieve nothing on my own? Why can nothing come of my own hard work? I cannot lean unto my own understanding? But what of my understanding of God? If I am a vessel of Godliness, can I not lean unto my own reason, my own judgement. My own light?
They groan like corpses animated with something other than life. If they are the worthy ones then let me be damned. Mine is a philosophy of living. I do not worship those who are already dead. Who have chosen never to live for themselves at all.
I will not live a half life. My soul aches for the comfort of divinity, but I know no God could love a creature such as I have become. I need no God. I ask none for help. I want no Heavenly aid. I seek only my own life. I love only my own life. The people around me are beyond my help. They are all as the burning woman, sacrificing themselves upon the alters of the supposedly divine. I cannot. Pride prevents me from committing such self immolation.
So with tears in my eyes and an aching heart, I will leave it all behind. The bodies groping blindly in the dark after their faith, crawling on their bellies like starving savages, are not mine to save. They have made their choice.
And this is mine. I chose to live. For me. For those I love. I chose to be myself and to exist in happiness and joy until the end of my days. I reject guilt and shame as unholy and profane. I demand nothing of anyone but their own worthiness. Worthy of themselves. Worthy of their potential.
So with my head held high, I forsake Heaven and all it's commands. I will not live a life of endless debt. I will pay the price myself and live for no other purpose than my own joy in this life. My happiness as a means and end above that which they preach. Above the stars, knowing I have every ability to reach them and beyond. Above a God that would limit my life to the earth in exchange for some pretended reward.
With my head held high, I choose to be good. I choose to desire that which is right. Worthy of it all. I will live my life in such a way that no God could command otherwise.

Good enough

-Ramblings from a month ago. Feelings remain relatively the same.-

So what is this? Am I not fucking good enough for God? A creation that he forgot? An unfinished story shut in a drawer to be continued never? A black sheep that wandered too often and too far?
Clearly, something in this equation is wrong. If God exists then where is he?
If he exists then he's left me.
Better not to believe. Better that I grow up and grow out of this faith.
I must take arms against this rejection by deity. This fairytale cannot be allowed to control my life, cannot be allowed to continue.
I wanted to believe. I desired that faith.
I sat and watched as others received answers, as the same seeds that I have watered with my tears, grew orchards for those around me. "Faith." They promised me. "You're seeds will grow. Ours did. ours have."
Guilt and doubt filled the space that I had cleared for my faith.
I have been promised.
I have been lied to.
Am I not fucking good enough for God?
My saving grace, my creator, my Heavenly Father and friend?
Better to believe in myself.
I exist.
Santa Clause will not bring me what I need each December, and God will not say a word.
His silence on this front speaks volumes about what he will not say.
His silence speaks of what he dare not admit: his existence.
Heaven forbid that Heaven acknowledges itself. God forbid that God tip his hand.
Faith alone must carry us through this darkness.
Faith in a voice that will not speak, a hand that will not help, an eye that refuses to see. A heart that will not be moved to feel.
The Justice and Mercy of God would be unending, extending on forever.
The Mercy of his sacrifice, steeped in our guilt and soaked in the blood of the innocent, made necessary by the demands of Justice in a universe where the unjust hold the reins, would mean nothing at all without the blind followers of his own creation. Created for the worship of himself.
Better to see, to open my eyes to the ways of the world that a God created to forsake. 
Better to believe in myself, to know who I am and that I am good, than to bear the pain of a Father who no longer cares.
I am fucking good enough.
I'm here God. I am here and I am good. So where are you?

Possibilities

In that dark the night was alive with the dead. Crisp leaves, dragged by the wind, scraped themselves across the pavement, clattering like skeleton bones. The air was electric. Anticipation. Her silhouette could have appeared from around any corner, behind any tree. My heart raced and the howling wind whipped my hair across my face, tickled my lips.
By the time I entered the building and blinked against the bright lights, my hands trembled.
The elevator chimed and that one thought, that solitary, dangerous, forbidden idea slipped peacefully back into the shadows of a dream. 

Guiltless

At the risk of being risky, I'm going to tell you the truth. About me, about my life, about what I believe. I don't know who reads this blog, and that's part of the thrill I suppose; not knowing. So here it is.
I'm a Mormon. I was born Mormon, raised Mormon. That was my identity. In Texas I was the Mormon. In Utah I became a Mormon. But it was something I never doubted.
For all my pursuits of truth, for all my affirmations of objectivism and reason, I never looked beyond what I knew to be true. I estimated new knowledge only so far as it agreed with what I knew to be Universal Truth. I did not doubt it, and therefore anything true must agree with my personal knowledge of the Universe.
And then I experienced something.
For the first time my eyes were opened. I saw what my life had become, I saw my beliefs and faiths reflected in the eyes of a woman on fire.
I watched a woman, the same as you or I, destroy herself. Willingly. Happily. She carried a guilt that threatened to crush her. The only way she knew to rid herself of it was to brand herself a sinner. Her hope was that honesty would triumph over the power of her family's secret darkness. It did not.
Like Hester Prynne herself, she was branded. Like a Saint of old she was burned. Like a criminal she was crucified. And the people of the congregation sat there and watched.
Tears streamed down the woman's face as she confessed the sins of her husband. Sins that bore her down like an anchor and tied her to his guilt. Sins that proclaimed her guilty by association.
I watched her sacrifice herself. She tore out her heart, the little personal bits and pieces that are sacred to one's self, and she cast them in front of us to be judged and scorned. She tied herself to her own pyre. She threw herself and her family out into the mercy of our judgment. And the people watched.
I was horrified.
As I sat there I witnessed an act of moral depravity. Altruism taken to its extreme. Her self immolation was supported and expected by all. Her personal family affairs were the business of every do-gooder and nosy busy-body in the room. Her husbands actions affected them all in such deeply personal ways that her punishment was deserved for what she had done to them. Her family's personal decisions affected them all. Her punishment was just.
I was horrified.
In atonement for her egregious crimes against the community, she and her husband sentenced themselves to travel the state telling their story. Nothing could be so humiliating, so heart wrenching, so shameful as sharing their story with every soul who did not deserve to hear it.
I was horrified.
My hands shook. My heart raced. It was as though I were watching a gruesome self torture, surrounded by those who thought it good. To my left and to my right were those who would have stoned the Adultness, who hung Salem's witches, who crucified the Savoir and passed judgment upon every living soul other than their self.
I was horrified.
And there sat the people. My people. Smiling and nodding. Taking notes. Seeing nothing wrong. Seeing nothing. It was agonizing.
I sat there in my seat, muscles clenched either to run for my life away from the monsters that would tear out my heart and eat it while I watched, or to save her. The burning woman. To scream and shout and tell her that her guilt was undeserved. She had done no wrong! By what right could they punish her?!
What I saw next will forever be seared into my memory.
She looked at us, and she smiled. A smile so full of agony, so full of guilt and self hatred and loathing. But there in her eyes, was approval. She! The victim! She approved of it all! She thought it to be good and just! She, the woman on fire, tied to the cross and staked through the heart, believed that she was deserving of this hell! She was a monster too.
I sprang into action.
I sprinted away as though from the very gates of Hades. I trembled and found myself sobbing as I ran.
By what right?! I cried. By what right?!
Before I fully knew it, I was standing at his door.
When he let me in, I wonder what he saw in me. I had seen something that I had not thought possible in our modern day. I had witnessed something medieval and wrong. Those smiling faces danced behind my eyes.
He let me in and I cried. First in horror, then disgust, then bewilderment and anger.
By what right?! By what right?!
It was her face. That womans' face. The face of a cannibal.
I cried, and he let me cry. And when I was done we talked. And when we talked I learned something important. The most important thing I have ever known.
Every since I was a little girl, I've been guilty. If I wasn't committing sin, then I was not doing something that I could have, committing a sin of omission. If I was doing everything right in my life, but thought one inappropriate thing, I was guilty. If I thought nothing wrong at all, but rushed and did not read my scriptures that morning, I was guilty. If I was too busy loving my best friend to convert him to the gospel, then his soul was in my hands and I was damned. If I drank the wrong drink the ambiguous voice in my head whispered of my guilt.
There was never a moment of freedom. I lived on my guard. I put up walls in my life, walls in my friendships, walls in my head. In order to protect myself from evil, I boxed myself in. Walls and walls of guilt.
My face had been the same.
The only way to atone for my sins was to try harder. And when I failed again and my guilt grew, so did my desperation. So did my secret agony. So did my smiles. I began to pretend as I began to realize my imperfections. I began to know that I would never be free of this weight. Even if I did everything right, even if I followed every rule, even if I went to my dear loving bishop to atone for my sins previous, the result would be the same.
The only consequence that lay ahead of me was sacrifice. The only presence that was sure in my future was guilt. There was nothing else.
And then it happened.
My eyes opened and I saw what I had never been able to see: The guilt was mine. It could not be distributed by another, only accepted by me. No other, no person nor organization or God could make me feel what I did not willingly take. And just like that, like cutting the rope from a heavy anchor, the guilt fell away.
I was free.
I saw the blind futility of it all. The entirety of my life that I had spent feeling so alone, so lost, so ashamed, it all meant nothing. I looked at myself and I liked what I saw there. I saw a good person. I saw a girl with values and morals and a lifetime of good decisions. I saw the potential for whatever I wanted that girl to be. I saw happiness in her eyes and goodness in her heart. There was no more guilt in that face.
I am free.
The consequences of what I have done are still largely unknown to me. I do know, however, that I can never go back. The door to what I once was has been closed forever. Only an uncertain future awaits me now. But I am not afraid.
Will I be able to return to that organization that demanded my own immolation since my birth? Will I be able to one day reconcile myself with a church that supports self sacrifice? I do not know.
I do know that my relationship with Deity has never been stronger. I do know that I am, for the first time, entirely made up of only myself. I do know that what tempted me previously holds no sway for me now because GUILT is not my motivator. GUILT is not my natural state of being. I was born, I was created to be happy. To experience joy. And I feel that now like I have never felt it before! My life is in my own hands. I am sailing this ship alone now. There is no one to tell me where to go.
My life is now uncertain. In some ways, I am afraid. But that is a fear of the unknown, not of hellfire and damnation. That is a fear that I will conquer.
I am free.
I am happy.
And I am guiltless!

A Revelation

Reality cannot be escaped. Existence is real. It exists. So when someone offers up the irrational as their wish, it can only be allowed existence by faking reality. It is our duty as worshippers of logic and reason, to vehemently deny the irrational, the illogical, and refuse them existence. We cannot presume that "good will out" or that evil will destroy itself so that only good can remain. To do so is to slip into a victims complacency. It is our obligation to ACT.
So when our politicians offer us up philosophies of good intent, we cannot sit idly by, trusting that one day they will see the error of their ways. By doing so we give them permission to continue on deceiving themselves and denying reason, forsaking thought. Doing so damns us as victims of a non-reality that we allowed to exist. One that is doomed to destruction and bloodshed at the hands of good intent.

Existential Flu

I seem to have caught a bit of Existential Flu.
I should get over it in a week or two but it's quite annoying, let me assure you.
The basis of it is this:
What's the point?
I mean, I don't mean to sound arrogant or anything, but I'm intelligent. Not only that, I'm resourceful and determined. I plan to do things with my life. My family looks at my To Do list and they laugh at me, but it's only because they can't see what I see. Not yet.
But even if I accomplish that list in full, if I get all my degrees in History, Business, Philosophy, Physics, Law, if I get my Mechanics license, become a lawyer, own a successful business chain, write a million books, change the world, EVEN THEN. What's the point?
My life, even if I accomplish every great thing that I intend to, will be nothing more than another ordinary human life in the never ending chain of humanity. Escape is impossible. I've felt since I was a little girl that the only way out would be to run away and join a circus, but even then, to never taste greatness...
And it's not for glory. Well, it is. But not the kind you'd think. I have to reach my potential. I've just got to. I could care less what other people think of me, they're not important. I just have to know that I've done everything I possibly can to become the greatest person who's ever lived. For me personally. Nobody else need ever know, ever speak of me again. I just have to know it for myself.
To top it all off, I'm bored. I work, I read, I write, teach myself French and Quickscript and writing backwards and guitar and piano and calligraphy and mind mapping and philosophy, but what's the point?!
They already cured Ebola without me.
I'll never be able to afford a trip to Africa.
I'll never reach the level that I want to, that I need to.
Last time I felt like this it lasted for more than a year. A year long Existential Crisis. Jolly good fun.
Anyways, I suppose I deserve it. I should care more about other people and serving and getting lost in my service. But I just can't bring myself to care. They'll manage on their own. Just like I will. I don't have time for their constant complaints and endless need for coddling. And if they need help, that's what friends and family are for. I'm not really a "friend" to anyone so that let's me off the hook there, or at least it should. What's the point? Of all of it?

 

Here's a journal entry for you

Haha ok. So it turns out that I do have feelings. I am perfectly susceptible to human emotion. I had a funny example of it this past week. So I ended up writing this really entertaining (at least to me) journal entry and I believe that journals are to be shared. So I'm going to post it here. Heh. Be prepared. It's pretty snarky and sarcastic all the way through.  Oh, and I'm using names and things. I believe in that too. Be warned. These are my personal thoughts and feelings, uncensored and unedited. Do with them what you will.

"Dear Kooper,

...My whole life I've always thought that I was an excellent judge of  character. Over the years I've realized that I am actually really terrible. Then yesterday I discovered that I was absolute crap. But now I think that I'm not too far off the mark. You see, my story begins with Michael Fletcher.
Fletcher is attractive. He's tall, tan, has dark curly hair, rippling muscles and a smile to make Chris Hemsworth blush. He's an actor, singer and dancer.
Fletch is the type that knows all women love him and loves to be loved by them. I've always thought that he was an arrogant dog who wasn't worth a moment of my time. well, I've always told myself that anyways.
On principle, I have never liked men like him. A pretty face, even great talent, has never been enough to attract me. Normally when these personalities discover my immunity to their charm, they work extra hard to make me fall for them. This never works, but is fine by me. I love the attention. But with Fletcher it was different.
I always thought he was ridiculously attractive. I've probably told him that a few times too. At the same time that I knew he was a dangerous womanizer and nothing but a pretty face, I liked him. I liked his arrogance. Even though I knew he did not meet my qualifications in a man. So I avoided him like the plague.
Turns out that wasn't too hard to do. He was a year ahead of me with only a few friends of mine in common. Soon he graduated and I gratefully left him behind.
Until, that is, I volunteered to work the Stadium of Fire. I discovered after a few days that he was working there too. Only, I worked in the offices making copies and running errands, while he spent each day in the sun doing hard physical labor.
For some strange reason Jill and I were talking about crazy parties and she began to explain that Fletcher could make out with anyone and then just walk away without it bothering him. Without thinking twice. This was true to everything I knew about him but it still made me feel uncomfortable. She sensed my hesitation on the subject and began to push me on it. She eventually joked that I could ask him for a kiss and he would give me one without a second thought.
I could not hide my reaction from her. What she saw was revulsion. Revulsion that, even in jest, she would ever think that of me. Revulsion at the thought of stooping to such a level, of asking him for a kiss. Revulsion at what he would have thought of me. And revulsion towards myself. Towards the little part of myself that entertained the idea. She did not see that part.
Elated at having found something to use against me for her own amusement, she ran to Michael Fletcher to plan evil schemes with him.
My next few days were filled with his suggestive glances and wicked wiggling eyebrows. I only saw him a few times, but it was enough. Clyde talked to me about him, laughing. He said that Fletch had asked him, "How am I supposed to seduce her if she's never here?"
You're not! Was my ferocious silent reply. Well, half of it. The other half was a desire to quickly run down to the field and make myself available for his seduction.
Instead I bolted to the women's bathroom in the other direction, the only safe haven that I knew. I spent the next hour there fighting with my reflection.
He's just a boy! I told myself. A petty obnoxious boy. He posses no real intelligence, no cognitive genius for me to admire. why should I care about his looks? I'd met more attractive men before and reacted in the appropriate way. Why should it bother me now? I, who have always prided myself on the ability to find someone attractive and not be attracted to them, was falling like an idiot for some playboy I hardly knew, who I knew would never like me. How absolutely, ridiculously illogical!
I decided to end that foolishness. To crush it before it escalated.
"He is attractive." I admitted to myself. "But I am a woman." A woman such as myself would never fall for his tricks. I assigned this to be my mantra, to give my strength in weakness. He is attractive, but I am a woman!
I steeled my resolve and finally pushed open the bathroom door, ready to conquer the world.
At the same time he stopped, three feet in front of me on the way to the men's room.
He lowered his sunglasses and looked and me approvingly. Then he flashed a brilliant white smile and said, "...Hi."
Horror paralyzed me for a fraction of a moment. But then, I gathered my wits and found the appropriate response, rolling my eyes and walking away. However, the muscles in my cheeks didn't get the memo. It wasn't until after I left that I realized I had been smiling like a loon the entire time. The only reason I did finally realize it was because the grin was still there, plastered to my face.

That night, I dreamed of him. There were no zombies, no rainbows, no machine guns, no space travel, no flying, no magic. Nothing the identifies my usual dreams.
There was a dance.
With a sparkling red evening gown and music from a 20's speakeasy in Chicago, I saw him. He wore a vest, dazzling as ever. He passed blonde after blonde, dress after gorgeous dress, and came to a stop in front of me.
He looked me over and wiggled his eyebrows. I stared in disbelief. Then he held out his hand for mine. Without a word I took it, he spun me close to him, and we danced.

The next day I texted Ryan for support, to help me shake my insanity. He said something to the effect of, "Fletch is trouble. Don't waste your time." As if I didn't already know.
During this time I was in the middle of reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Her writings gave me strength. I was looking for Fransico d'Anconia, Henry Rearden, John Galt and Howard Roark. These were the men I wanted. The only sort I would ever accept: Men of intelligence and ability and joy and a love and respect for life.
Throughout my time there people would ask me what it was that I was reading. The either didn't recognize it, hated the writer, pretended to know it, or said they were just impressed that I was reading a booThis is Rachel again. I'm having some car trouble, so I'm running late. But I don't think it's too serious so I should be on my way soon. Is there somebody I need to call or something?k so big, which wasn't exactly encouraging.
Anyways, I was talking to Michael Edwards. He wanted to know why I was so against love.
Feeling like a hypocrite but stating ideas I used to deserve in order to convince myself once more, I explained myself.
Fletcher joined our table just as I began.
Good. I thought. Let him hear.
I told them how I was a complete being, a whole entity in and of myself. I would never need another person to feel complete. I did not have a "missing piece." There was no hole in me to fill. I was happy by myself, independent and strong.
Fletcher laughed and said that he loved relationships. Or, that he would if her ever found one.
He perplexed me. I knew what he was, yet when I was around him I could never reconcile that player I knew him to be, with the man in front of me.
Mike gave in and explained that he never went into an argument looking to win, but looking to be convinced. And since his mind would not be changed on this matter and neither would mine, further discussion was pointless.
Fletcher and I looked at him like he was crazy.
A little let down, I went back to reading my book, feeling like I had cast my pearls before something worse than swine. Something truly indifferent.
I looked up to see Fletcher staring pointedly at the pages I was excitedly underlining and scribbling over.
"Oh...um." I grinned sheepishly and saw all my colorful annotations. "It's my favorite book." I held up the cover for him to see. "Atlas Shrugged."
"By Ayn Rand." He nodded with a smile. "I love that book. Have you read The Fountainhead?"
A part of me knew I should have been shocked, but I was too excited to notice.
"Of course! I loved it!"
"And Anthem." He acknowledged. "I love her philosophy. I mean, it's a bit extreme for me, but Stalin didn't exactly get it right either." He chuckled.
Someone at the table asked what Anthem was.
"It's like a condensed version of her other books. Like Objectivism made easy. It encompasses her philosophy, but it's much shorter."
"It's the cute version." I agreed and we looked at each other with laughing eyes.
It wasn't until afterwards that I realized what had happened.
Shocked, I asked Clyde and Jill if that was normal for him. They laughed and told me about all his amazing test scores, the endless books he was always reading, his incredible intelligence.
My last barrier shattered.
I don't know how long I sat there trying to process this new information. Michael Knight sat next to me the entire time, finding my reaction hysterical.
That was it. I had nothing left to fight him with. Everything that I had known about him was a lie. Every reason I had to hate him was blasted away. I was left powerless, knowing and dreading the implications of this information. In the end, all I could do was store it away for future processing. I didn't have the capacity to deal with it just then.
I resolved the next time I saw him to ask him why. To force the truth from him.
He sat down next to Clyde. The two passed his phone back and forth between them. They were playing chess. Fletch was winning. I groaned silently.
"Fletch?" I asked. He looked up. "Why do you pretend you aren't as smart as you are?" He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin with a quick laugh. "I don't know." He shrugged. "It's fun.
I shook my head. "From the moment I met you I thought you were just a player. And you let me think it too!"
He grinned.
"You know what that makes you?" I realized aloud. "Fransico d'Anconia. The playboy that wasn't."
"Thank you." He said sincerely. "If there is anyone in the book that I would dream of being compared to someday, it's Fransico d'Anconia."

So, you see, maybe my judge of character isn't so bad. Maybe some part of me knew what he really was.
But the funny thing is, rather than this sending me into a fanciful obsession, this realization has only set me free of him. Because he is Frisco. He really is. And Frisco was a great man, everything anyone could ever dream of. But he was only step number one.
Step number two? Hank Rearden.
Then, finally, my John Galt, my Howard Roark. The best man. The only options that matter.
And that's my story. :)

-Rachel."

Heh.
Anyways, I just realized how brilliant he is. He plays the fool that every girl thinks she wants. That's his mask. And he's hiding what he really is, which is what every girl actually wants. It's brilliant. The perfect cover.
But yeah. There ya go.
My super special journal entry. Aren't I hilarious?
Thanks for reading! Until next time ;)

Sentiment

I haven't updated my blog in a while, so here you go! Fantastic new poems and even a bit of a commentary for you! For the twelve of you who follow me, I can barely fathom how excited you are right now. Especially the two of you who actually read what junk I post. 

So! Today's commentary!

My life runs in themes. For a day or a week or a month or even a whole year, one thing will repeat itself or come up over and over and over. 

My last theme was honesty and truth. Before that was beauty. 

Currently it's.... Sentiment! 

In every show I watch, every book I read, every movie I see, it talks about sentiment. 

Here's the thing.

Emotions are a part of us. They come with the package. They are chemical reactions in our bodies that send certain signals to our brain which, in turn, makes us "feel" a certain way. We can't really get rid of them. BUT we can avoid them to an extent and control them. I don't hate feelings. I love being happy. I even love a good cry sometimes. It's when emotion controls you, that scares me. 

Example time. 

A certain person I know who, for my own safety will remain nameless, thinks that they are the very picture of reason and common sense. Yet they are the center of every drama, the victim of every insult, the mastermind of every good idea, the spear head behind every attack. Even so they cannot see it. 

Does that make it their fault? I'm not sure. But I'll tell you what that does mean. 

Emotions are very... forward. It's like standing right in the middle of a football field during a big game. (Yes that was a sports analogy from me. Shocking, I know.) When you're right in the thick of it, you have an idea of what's going on. You feel like you're a part of the action. But in reality you could not possibly comprehend everything that was going on around you. That is what emotions do. They magnify everything and zoom in on YOU. They breed selfishness and deceit. We start forming facts to fit our opinions instead of forming our opinions to fit the facts. (A bit of Sherlock for you.) 

When you take emotion out of the equation, or at least try, you distance yourself. Instead of the middle of the field you find yourself in the stands. Some people manage to climb higher than others. The pros and cons of that distance are pretty clear but I'll get to that later. 

In the stands you can see everything. The entire game becomes clear to you. You can see the complexity of the individual pieces and how they work together towards a common goal. That's what life is. It's an incredibly complex dance. Some people are born to be the dancers, moving and shaping the world. Some people are born to watch them, some to follow. 

Personally, I favor the height of the bleachers. If I could, I would climb all the way to the top. Distance sacrifices activity. The further you retreat to see the entire picture, the less you are a part of it. You become an observer instead of a participator. There is a middle ground. It's tricky to find, but it's there. You just have to want it. 

Personally, I'd rather just watch. Sentiment, feeling like I'm a part of the game, the dance, the show, when I know I'm not, feels like a lie to me. There are things in my life that are mine, and in those things I am the dancer. But with people, with school, with friends, with relationships, with social events and gatherings, I like to observe.

There are many who would say that I am anti-social that way. That to be alone is to be lonely. That if I prefer my own company better than the company of others, I must be depressed and sad and begging for their camaraderie. They are wrong.

So here's my point, I suppose. 

Forgive me if I do not cry when we say goodbye. Forgive me if I do not grow nostalgic at the thought of leaving high school forever, if the approaching graduation date does not make me quake with anticipation and fear of what comes next. 

It is not that I do not understand. In fact, I understand better than most. 

It is just that I am watching, carefully, the dancing of the lives around me. I am watching you. How you react, the things you care about, the dance you are creating for yourself. It's beautiful. 

So forgive me if I do not dance. If I prefer not to play the game. 

I'm the scientist in this equation, carefully recording and analyzing the world and these bizarre humans that surround me. I can't ask you to understand me, why I do what I do. I'm a freak show in my own right. All I can ask is that you let me be me. Let me leave sentimentality to the rest of the human race. I don't need it in my life, any more than I've got it. (And I have plenty of it, just ask my journal box!) 

I will let you be yourself. 

Even those of you who scare the living daylight out of me by being Tasmanian devils of wild emotion and unpredictable mood swings, need not fear that I will ask you to be anything more than who you are. 

So please, allow me the same privilege?

Until my next theme, au revoir!

Luna

On the full moon
The world is bathed in a pure white light.
Shadows recede and trees become skeletons in the dark.
But the new moon
Has it's own magic.
The new moon is when she leaves the sky
Comes down to earth like a frozen snow
Blanketing hot summer nights in ice and cold silence.
She lives here
For a time
Among the black that has no name.
The source of light herself,
She can see nothing but the trees,
Faded shadows of the creatures she has seen from the skies
On the full moon. 

Sadness

Sadness is in my blood.
It sludges through my veins
Numbing what is not important
To make the pain more intense.
Sadness is in my joints.
My elbows and knees become weak
Heavy with sorrow
My hands hang uselessly at my sides.
Sadness is on my skin.
Prickling like needles,
Hurt manifests itself in a wave.
Sadness is in the tears I will not shed.
Held back,
The effort of keeping them captive makes the sacrifice meaningful.
Makes it ok to grieve.
Sadness is in the words that echo through my mind
Stinging relentlessly like angry wasps that refuse to die.
Sadness is in the whole of me
Unexpected because it is uncommon.
It attacks without warning, without mercy.
Leaving as quickly as it came.
Sadness is my insanity.
The only one I have to my name.

A question in the dark

A lullaby sung with quiet words on soft lips.
What matters most?
When the sun still shines and all is well,
Who can know what their answer will be?
Until the darkness falls and all is silent,
Who can know the sound of a decision made?
The answer to an age old question:
What would you die for?

Glass House

Let me live in a house of glass
Without a wall to hide behind.
To thrive in harmony with the earth,
Open to eyes and in defiance of the worlds lies.
Living honestly out of choice instead of necessity.
There are no secrets in glass hosues.
There are no more secrets for me. 

Green Room

What if life is the green room
And reality is out the door,
Where we are our true selves.
We become instinctive and finally of substance.
Reality is where we are warriors and peace makers.
Where we fight continually against the forces of evil.
In reality we are unfettered by physical laws.
Only the limits of our creativity can hold us.
That is where things take on new and significant meaning.
That is where we feel pain and euphoria,
Where our hearts soar as high as we can.
Compared to that reality
What is waking life but a green room?
A dull, colorless half life of waiting.
Waiting for what will happen next
Waiting to die
Waiting to fall asleep. 

Laundry Day

There was a time, before my time,
When laundry day meant going down to the river.
It meant washboards and elbow grease and freezing fingers.
On laundry day white sheets were strung up on the land,
Billowing in the wind and filtering bright sunlight onto green grass and daffodils.
The sweet smell of soaps must have filled the air,
Alighting gently with the warmth of the sun.
I can just imagine looking down on a little town.
To me it would have seemed like clouds pinned to the ground,
Undulating lazily in the breeze among the flowers.

Waiting

Why is it silent when it snows? It's like the whole earth is holding its breath. The pace of life slows, comes to a stop and sits in what seems like anticipation, just to watch the gentle soundless snow. If nature is truth and truth is God, then what could make God so silent? What is he waiting for?

To Fly

A jagged cliff hangs suspended in empty space. White swirling fog blurs the line between ground and sky, so that the clouds seem close enough to touch, no longer ethereal. No longer distant. My time has come. Nothing above me, nothing below me. There is a universe of possibilities, I know, extending on through the rushing wind, though I can see nothing but what is here with me now. A tree, solitary and worn smooth by weather, perches itself on the cliff face. Branches extend eagerly to the open sky and roots plunge deep into the hard rock, protruding  in places out over nothing, defying gravity and daring it to take effect. I understand the tree. A lone crow take flight with a sudden cry and plunges into the mysterious white heaven that surrounds us. My time has come. With the courage of my tree I reach out a hand into space and take my first step to fly. 

God Must Wear Camouflage

Cloaked in clothing made of stars, God and his angels could wait nearby, just above our heads, hiding in plain sight. I imagine, if I ever met God, he would be wearing a tuxedo that was as black as the deep recesses of space, shimmering lightly with his creations. There, on his elbow, would be a galaxy I recognized as mine.
"Come," He would take me kindly by the hand, a strong arm around my shoulder. "Come and see what I've made for you."
He would take me then on a tour of the cosmos, pointing out each wonder with a smile. Sometimes, I lose him in the backdrop of stars, but his hand is always there on mine.
Once we had seen everything, he said, "And now, one more surprise for you." With a little florish, he reveals to me a gown of stars woven together by the dust of the universe, twinkling like diamonds in the light of his smile. "A special dress for my special angel." My own camouflage.
When the day arrives that I die, look to the skies, I will be there watching over you in my twinkling dress, with God, wearing the camouflage of the Heavens.  

As I Lay Dying

As I lay dying
The stars hang suspended above me. I lay there for so long that they spin in circles around my head. I can feel the earth beneath me, impossibly huge and elegant. As the planet orbits in its graceful circles, I can see forever. 
As I lay dying 
I can feel my body becoming a part of earth itself. Though we are endlessly turning, the earth and I, winding our way through the cosmos, we do not get dizzy. We can see forever. 
As I lay dying 
On the cold cement of my driveway, I inhale once more to smell crisp winter air and frozen ground. I am one breath closer to death, one breath closer to becoming a part of the universe who's images I crave. One day another girl will lay here, where I lay now. 
"Look!" she will whisper to me. "Look. Can you see it? Can you feel it?" 
"Yes" I will reply and wrap her in arms of earth. "I always have."

Pure Snow

White snow blankets the ground, covering the earth in its purity. Innocence. It drains all passion and warmth from everything it touches. People reduced to huddling bundles of fabric. Trees reduced to skeletons. The world to outline and shadow. Only the innocent themselves can enjoy the snow. Small children shape their imaginations into white crystal, as pure as the snow they stand in.
Innocence is a sin. Pure snow hides the worlds true colors, disguising and disfiguring the truth. Ice crusts onto the things that are most important, distorting their shape, making it impossible to see reality. Innocence must be scraped away, chipped like icicles from off the truth, melted by the heat of life's sun. Innocence, like snow, causes nothing but heartache, is nothing but lies. Though the colors are hidden, they are not changed. Truth cannot just be forgotten. Reality can not be ignored. Not without a heavy price. And that price is your innocence. 

Breaking Character

Is this my curse? Is this the life I am consigned to? School, work, marriage, family? Is that it?
That's not enough for me. I want more. God I want more! It's not selfishness. It's not greed. I can't stand it! I can't stand living another minute knowing that this is all that awaits me. And when I die, what then? In any religion, what then? Reincarnated to live another life filled with emptiness!? Eternal life as a God, creating endless worlds just as normal as this one. Forcing others to live this life of mine? It is not ingratitude. It is despair. Complete and utter despair. For though my life will far supersede the lives of normal human beings, though I will make the most of this existence, this is all I will ever be. This is all there ever is. A life so far below any life I could imagine, that the only option seems to be to weep. For what good is anything else?

Macy's in the snow

I watch the rusty shopping carts roll by like a train of the wounded. Snow covered and dripping with half formed icicles, they are rushed into the heated store with the frantic pace of the dying. 
Aware of the peril, I place my heels against the rough ground of the grate, fearing lest I should be rushed into the warmth along with the metal carts on squeaking wheels that always turn just a little bit too far to the right. 

Satisfaction

There are times when poetry does not consol me. Times when the steady blade of my knife is all that binds me to this world. Slice. Cut. Slash. I carve through thin skin and pale flesh.
When I'm through my arm are dripping and wet, the knife a sticky mess on the counter. I feel faint, but the anger is gone. Now there is only emptiness.
With trembling fingers I measure out the little white powder, so crucial to my sanity, and arrange it carefully, exactly as I have done so often before.
Time passes, I am not sure how long. Inhaling deeply, I wipe the sweat from my brow and hold out my arms to examine my work.
With a bitter smile I realize that I've done it.
My Apple Pie is complete.

Less is more

I am a heartless, soulless wench. I have no emotions. I feel no compassion. I am a superhuman, a humanoid robot, a data inputting machine. Through the lens of harsh reality I see the world how it actually exists, without the fog of humanity to fight through.

At least, that’s what I think I am.

That’s what I think I am until the stress of my impending doom (and by doom I mean college) nearly snaps me in half and breaks down whatever wall in your eyeball holds back all your tears.

That what I think I am until I go for so long without eating and sleeping that my body shuts down and forces me to remember that I’m not actually made of metal by shaking every inch of me to the point where I can hardly walk.

That’s what I think I am until my frustration with society and with myself forces me to a Cliffside sunset, head on my steering wheel, heartache an unwelcome visitor in my passenger seat.

That’s what I think I am until I fall in love again, which seems to be a regular occurrence for me, and I hate myself for feeling things a robot would not feel.

That’s what I think I am until I realize… as much as I fight it, deny it, wish it away, emotions are the fuel that drive me. My poetry may be born of apathy and disgust, but those are feelings too. So I guess I can’t write poetry anymore. Robots probably aren’t very good at that. And they probably don’t have good friends either. Strike two.

I hope this isn’t a “three strikes and you’re out” kind of thing because I’m pretty sure if I thought about it too hard, I’d find strike three.

But that won’t stop me from trying to be like Data from Star Trek. He wished to be human and I wish more than anything to stop. What good can a mushy bag of bones do in a world of technology? What can a wrinkled human brain do that could not be done better and more efficiently by a matrix generator?

So tonight when I mistake Jupiter for a star next to the moon and make a wish as humans are wont to do, I’ll wish that one day I will be a heartless, soulless wench. I will wish to have no emotions, feel no compassion. To be superhuman, and a humanoid robot and a data inputting machine. Then I won’t have to learn how to control that mushy red thing in my chest. I can just replace it with a flash drive.

Emotions

When you acknowledge something, you give it power. And there are things I choose not to admit they even exist. Emotions are one of them. What I know about them is this: emotions are a game. You either play or you're the victim. You cheat the system or are manipulated by those who can play the game better than you. I don't have time to mess around with feelings. I've got bigger fish to fry than the cute boy in choir, better things to do than hang on a wire as someone's little puppet, a Master messing with my life just for the fun of it. No. That is a place I am choosing not to go. So when he hugs me and the butterflies start, when all I can hear is the beating of my heart, I step back and realize what's going on. It's the oxytocin being released in my brain that makes me feel this way, like I trust him and he loves me, but I know it won't last long. Feelings are just chemicals, inaccurate and almost always wrong. Instead, give me the facts. Tell me what's real, show me your true self and I'll show you mine. Honesty. That's reality. Truth exists. Everything else is irrelevant.