Woah.

I've been busy.

I haven't posted for 5 months.

I haven't opened the site for 5 months.

I have a good reason.

I promise.

I shipped myself to a New England boarding school?

No, I'm not a delinquent.

No, I don't hate my family.

No, I'm not a pretentious ungrateful trust fund kid.

I'm just a kid whose school didn't work for her.

And who was lucky enough to be able to afford to try something else.

It was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. 

It felt like I was falling. No idea when I would hit the ground. Knowing nothing was ever going to be the same.

But it was also the best decision I've ever made.

So I guess I'm just here to say, sometimes you have to be in free fall before you land where you belong.

Every year, December comes around again,

Like an old friend, 

One who you haven’t seen in a long time.

For many people, December brings happiness, and warmth.

While this is true, December itself is anything but.

To me, December is like an old man,

Wrapped up in sweaters,

With kind eyes, and thousands of stories.

He will sit with you as long as he can, recounting these tales of his youth.

Some of his stories are filled with magic and fireworks,

But some are packed with sadness, and tragedy.

You never know what stories he will tell when he stops by,

And sometimes it seems as if he doesn’t know either.

He has had a long life, December.

How else would he have so many stories, filled with love and loss.

When he eventually appears, 

Wrapped in his sweaters,

He will sit with you and ask you one question.

“What is this year’s story?”

The two of you will sit for a while,

Staring out at the last sunset of the year.

You will think.

December has so many stories to tell,

How could yours possibly be important?

As you reflect, December will watch.

Patiently waiting.

You will sit together for some time.

As you watch colors fade, so will the memories of this past year.

Everything that once seemed so important now feels like it was a million years ago,

But at the same time you don’t want it to be over.

There were so many things you wanted to do, people you wanted to meet, and achievements you never quite got around to.

But as the color fades and darkness takes over you will look at the old man one final time.

He will be fainter now, the wool of his sweater becoming translucent and the light in his eyes fading into a tiny sparkle.

“Until next year,” he will say.

Then, the clock will hit twelve, and he will be gone.

Gone as if he were never there, but not gone forever.

Why do we wonder? 

Is is a quiet rebellion? Refusal to accept It as it is? 

A mental shield to protect from routine and repetition?

Is its continual persistence to blur the harshness of reality?

What If This 

Suppose That 

If It Was 

Wonder, constant as breath or beating of a heart 

As if a sixth sense

Sense of wonder, a magical sense 

Slowing time just enough to notice the little things in life,

turning questions to possibility

Constantly curious

Awed by life's simplicity 

Wary in a good way, never quite satisfied

Like a child why, why, why,

why this and why that 

Why is the color blue called blue,

why is fire hot,

why does the sky change colors before night

Children possess the keenest sense of wonder to be found

noticing what no other will, coming into the world free of the "already known"

Asking questions of the most ordinary, the answer to their questions less important than the asking,

giving things overlooked new meaning 

Children are the fresh pair of eyes proofreading a paper,

the new angle needed to acquire a solution

They are the future, without new eyes, solutions, there would be no change 

No questions to be asked, same, same, same 

Quiet, unchanging, comfortable, imagination replaced by silence

World never changing no new perspectives to be had

Change is hard 

It can feel like a floor collapsing beneath your feet or water being poured over the fire providing comfort and heat

but comfort does not allow change

Comfort allows the fire to burn too big, too bright, smoke clouding judgement and heat numbing the need to move 

it kills everything ahead, becoming too blinded to see and then?

All to be left are scorch marks of what could have been.

Experiences.

They're a gift all on their own.

Spending time with friends, laughing and talking about stuff that doesn't even really matter to anyone but us.

Immersing myself in a world of roleplay, where I'm whoever I want.

Writing poems and stories, some just for myself, some for the world.

Even getting angry, or sad, or grieving is a gift.

For as long as you can feel, you know you're alive.

That's why experiences are such a gift.

Headphones on, life off.

Turn up the sound 

to drown out

the deluge of my worries,

let the rhythm burn

my ears, ignore

the sting, because my

cheap blue headphones 

bring me

comfort.

Twirl the cord

around my finger,

sound circles my brain.

Shut my eyes

to feel the lyrics,

place my hands on the

sides of my

cheap blue headphones,

the ones that bring me

comfort.

The ones that can make

me feel sound

and hear color.

With my 

cheap blue headphones 

on, I find peace

in the shape of

music.

My love for my

cheap blue headphones

is arcane,

but maybe that's because

when I put them on,

the whole world melts away

until there is nobody left

but me.

A site I was hesitant to join at first,
A place where people share their opinions, emotions,
And little pieces of their mind.

Writing was something I never thought I could accomplish.
But in the Young Writers Project,
I found myself writing not just for me,
But for people who feel the same way I do.

A girl who once thought writing was hard,
Who felt it was more of a chore than a passion.
Yet YWP gave me courage
And peace of mind.

It’s a place where writers grow,
Where inspiration finds you
Even when you don’t know what to write.