-log

Why is it called a blog? Why not a wlog? Vlog means video blog, so why can't wlog mean writer's log?

I am a writer after all, and this site is my log of writings.

So, why blog?

What does the "b" stand for? Brain?

Brain log. That's interesting.

What do you think about "blog"?

3.1415926535...

Happy Pi Day!

(And, yes I did look up pi for the decimals)

Will pi ever end? Like pie, I highly doubt it. Pie is awesome (and I wish I had some right now). Today, mathmaticians should be partying, having pie, celebrating the greatness of pie...er...pi.

Celebration. That is the theme of this month. For me at least. Pi Day, Ides of March--Caesar's death (Brittany's birthday :P, President Andrew Jackson's birthday, Bret Michaels' birthday), St. Patrick's Day (family birthday), the Offical Last Day of Winter (March 19th which--you guessed it--another birthday, my best friend's), March 20th (golf teammate's birthday), March 24th (my fabulous roommate's birthday).

Maybe March should just be know as the party month. I know more celebration-worthy events happening in March than any other month.

It's crazy.

No, really. It is.

So, what is happening or what happened to you in the month of March?

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Four-leaf clover if you couldn't guess. I'm not very artistic with computer signs. :P <--See.

Quite Natural

I pride myself as the wall. Blending in with only a look or two.

I pride myself being the background, unnoticed. Working behind closed doors casting a shapeless shadow on the floor.

My voice a whisper fading into the wind. Two words spoken but seem only an imagination.

I stroll by, not in a rushed pace but brisk. Maybe too fast for you, that's just your loss.

Never will I be the focus of a spotlight unless forced to. I will shy away because the attention scares me so.

However, I pride myself being fluent in a language so delicate. Many dialects but I am fairly fluent in only two.

With praise, I flourish the aspects of some. With covert operations, I hide my malice over others.

Names are names, but what name can be given a person? What name can fully describe the person?

None! None can! And, for that reason is the language given. For the master to weave a person from this name or name a person from the language.

'Tis not as simple, as easy as we make it to be. 'Tis why we familiarize ourselves with others. A stranger or two.

But, some are hard. They see only flaws and image. They are distasteful, crude, air headed, evil.

They are all like that, too. And, they get nowhere. Fall on their faces, beg for lowly jobs. Or at least they will. It's their future.

It's these I pride myself for. These faceless monstrosities. All the same, so I must give them a face. Perhaps even spare them a name.

I have to study them, watch them move. An aspect or two maybe of interest but that's it. Add the "highlights" and done.

A story that cherishes the person, idolizes. So annoying.

Give me death! Give me heroic adventure! That I will spotlight for! That I will shine for!

But, I must take my pride and wait. It's not quite yet. I another time or two before I'm set.

I will take my pride and bloom beautiful flowers. Death will come to them, but they never last long do they?

An orchard yearns to be born. One that lasts forever. And, I feel the anxiety that can't wait.

The time is not yet ripe. I must take my pride, the language to paint a fair portrait or two.

I must pride myself as I become the breath of the wind. Caressing, blissful but silent to the truth.

We are a little Crazy...but we don't care

The beginning of my second semester of freshman year has been tiring, fast. I just hadn't realized that mid-February is already here, and I have SO much to do. Golf practice I seriously need, papers that need written, newspaper stories to start, and oh, mid-terms are coming up.

Can I hit pause? Just for an hour or two?

Yeah, reality has smacked me in the face. Hard. And, a little wet.

So, I have taken up poetry lately. Just whatever hits me with a hard passion. It's my outlet...well for now. I can't work on my novel in the middle of madness. Most of it is dark poetry which kind of scares me on one hand, but then again, it comes easy that way. Oh, Mr. Poe...

One of my poems (that I haven't posted yet) really freaked me out. It depicted a girl having a tragic Valentine's Day. The narrator watches her crying as she throws her Valentine card into a river. I leave the ending open because at first I didn't know how to end it. So, I put it down and continued working on an outline for class. About ten minutes later (maybe more I don't remember), I get a text from my fourth roommate telling me her boyfriend broke up with her. I open my door at the same time my other two friends are coming down the hall. I think you can guess where this goes. I showed them the poem later, and they think I'm a fortune teller or something.

The four of us just cannot go anywhere without each other. We are all on the same floor and only a few doors down. They are the best people ever, and I don't know why it took this long for us to find each other. We are quirky. We are strange, but we don't really care. We are just ourselves.

I've been told before that the friends you make in college will last a lifetime. (I think this applies to my friends from Manchester, too.) And, we definitely will stick together in college. The future still remains a mystery. I can tell you though it will be crazy.

Washed Away

You're a drifter. Drifting along in the sea of your unconsciousness. You only see the surface, to afraid to delve into deeper waters. The truth lies as a unknown creature. Perhaps friendly, perhaps death.

So, you just float. No inner tube. No noodles. Just lay floating. Face up to the world. Bare back to the chilling touch of the waters.

Be careful of depth perception. Don't let the unknown drag you under. Don't let your unconscious consume you. It is a tricky thing. The temptations. The wonderment.

But, it's all for a trap. A trap you can't escape. Lost and confused. What is real? What is...a dream? Left screaming for the surface. Only glimpses come. The watery reflection. Distorted.

You can't quite break through. The creatures tease and taunt you. Mock you. All you can do is take it. You're trapped. Crying in the cage they lock you in.

Gone. Gone forever and a day. No one can reach you. The strong seem to approach you, but even they can't release you. They can't hear your cries. Your screams. A film that mutes your voice. Deafens your ears. Clouds your eyes. Only the cruel laughter.

It drags you down. Further and further. No longer can you see the faint rays. Pitch black. Cold. Glowing eyes surround you. The cage is closing in. Smaller and smaller. Hunger all around.

Growls escape their lips. Impatience. Die they say. Let us consume you. Let us destroy you. How can you refuse? You can go no where. Safety is long gone. Far away. You want to resist. But, you know it is to no avail.

They crouch closer, feeling you give in. The cage bends, creaks, stabs into your skin. Oozing blood pours out. They go after your head. One last agonizing cry slips through, and they pour in.

An ice cold splash of water smacks you in the face. A wave. The ocean. The sun beats down on you as you float on your back. The sea beneath you. A dream. Perhaps. But, the tingling sensation tickles your back. And, you swear you heard laughter.

Not today. It's not time today. They tempt you more, but they know it's not today. Because your a drifter. Afraid of the deeper waters. Always have your back to the sea. For now you say. Your day will come. Tomorrow maybe. The day after, sure. But, not today. Not today.