Due to the fact that I’m heading back to school full time and continuing to work as well, I’m going to be taking a brief break from this blog. Once I get up on my feet, I’ll be back, though my usual posting format will have to be adjusted to prioritize school. Hopefully I will be able to return soon, but until then, thanks for reading!
My mom walked into my room before she went to bed, which was usually hours before I did. “Make sure to get enough rest, all right?” She kissed my head. “Sleep tight.” She paused, then added as a rhyme, “Don’t stay up all night.”
Addiction is like being placed on the back of a train and being told to find the front. So you start running, car to car along this long line, trying to reach the engine. And you just think, One more, one more, one more will get me there. I just need one more car and then I’ll find it. But then suddenly you wake up and realize the train is never-ending, there is no engine in sight, and you are exhausted trying to find a satisfaction you’re not even sure exists. Yet we still fall back under the spell because we are all chasing an engine, something that is driving this train.
Writing tip: keep themes. If you start a sentence with a metaphor or something under a certain theme (such as music), keep that theme throughout the sentence and maybe even lightly throughout the whole concept/paragraph as is acceptable.
It was a thick, solid kind of snow that crunched when you stepped on it, that only sank enough to leave prints and prove you’d walked on it. The kind of snow that made you feel like you were walking on water.
People often don’t react in ways that seem logical. Because we’re not logical beings. We’re psychological beings.
There was rain falling outside, tapping on the roof insistently like it wanted to get in but didn’t know how to do anything more than knock over and over again.
If someone mean yells at me . . . they’re just mean.
If someone nice yells at me . . . then I deserve it.
You don’t get over a thing like this. I’d always known that, but now I found myself learning it over and over again, one day at a time. You never get over it, but as the months pass, the pain lessens, the memories don’t hurt so much to recall, and you start to adapt a new reality. A new reality where the hole becomes webbed over very slowly, so that one day you wake up and suddenly realize that you’ve almost forgotten. It was a kind reality, where I didn’t live in pain every day, but it was a dangerous one, too, in such a way that I thought one day I might forget him altogether.
Wishing my fridge worked the same way as my laptop: just type in onions, and it’ll highlight where they are.