I'm going to go play piano now, I taught myself that song, "I Will Love You" by Fisher... it sounds so pretty.

What I want to say about the past few entries, is that they are about no one in particular, no single person, no single events. Collectively, I suppose they are, but I am just in one of those moods. I haven't felt this way in such a long time, this impetus to write. It's amazing, I've written so much today after feeling that I had no emotion to pour onto paper anymore. I feel reborn and I feel the start of something amazing within my heart. I do not know what it is that has sparked this, but I hope that it stays. I know I sound so incredibly angry, so bitter, so depressed... and I suppose that part of me is, but it's just writing. I just couldn't stop typing. I can't stop typing... I don't think I will stop thinking and scratching and penning everything that I feel needs to be said, because it is impossible to keep my mind silent, it is impossible to stop this waterfall of feeling from flowing. I don't even know if anyone even took the time to read anything I have written, and if you have, with the exception of a handful of people, you may not understand where this piece of me is coming from, where these emotions have come from, who Kristin is. I don't know, maybe it will help you understand in the end, I hope everyone will understand in the end, that's the purpose of this entire page. I'm gradually beginning to find things I thought that I would never find, and I'm so very excited to say the least. Anyone who wishes to join me on my journey, is welcome to come. We'll see what comes of this, I'll see. Who knows, it could just be this night, and recent events, and you. But I'll embrace this until tomorrow, I'll embrace the warmth and the chill and every bit of it. I'll embrace it until I dream tonight.

Letter to My Future Self (Now), Draft One


Dear Self,


You are undoubtedly much older and wiser than when I left you last, and I can only hope that the years separating us two have made you happier and healthier as well.

Do you remember me as I am now, as you were then?

Do you remember how fourteen felt, the way it tasted, slippery on the tongue and bitter, like chocolate laced with poison? Do you remember how clear the sky looked, even when the sun shone down cheaply, like a fifty-cent plastic version of the real thing? Do you remember how the air was fresh and you could breathe it in, deep and cold, with both lungs, filling yourself up like a bright red balloon able with ease to fly away?

Do you remember how your spine tingled, prickling with the wonderment of things to come? Do you remember that great big vast future you had to look forward to? Do you remember the early morning mist that clouded the way, obscuring your view, and the only way to find what lay beyond was to run to it unafraid, arms outstretched to greet, to embrace, whatever the path held in store for you?

Do you remember how important everything felt? Vital, immediate? Do you remember that sense of urgency—the way time felt too small to fill with all your plans? The way you needed to do things now, now, now before it grew too late? The way water and sand slipped through your fingers and you didn’t want the years to do the same?

Do you remember how close the stars felt at night? How you knew you could just reach up your hand and pluck one out, lace it on fishing line, and wear it around your neck? How everything was just within your reach or just beyond? And how once you had that driver’s license you knew there would be no limit to where you would go, what you would see, and what amazing things you’d accomplish?

Do you remember how unreal, how foreign the word impossible felt? How inapplicable? Do you remember how you knew there was no limit, no end, nothing to weight down the balloon that was you? Do you remember how your wings were not made of wax, and they’d never melt as you flew out to kiss the face of the sun?

Do you remember the whistling of the wind in your ears? The way the snow fell that winter? And fell, and fell, and fell. Do you remember the cold that you knew could never be permanent, because there was a voice deep inside of you screaming out endlessly for summer and light and warmth, and you knew that you would never be denied? Do you remember the way the sun warmed the sad grey ghosts of trees and you willed yourself to hear them whispering their promise of spring?

Do you remember the music you could almost dance to, almost sing along to? Do you remember the terror of appearing foolish? The joy of being “grown up,” mature? The need to be a woman, the knowledge that you weren’t a little girl sitting on daddy’s lap anymore? Do you remember the way you thirsted for something, something you couldn’t define, but something you swore you’d know when you saw it, when you felt it, smelled its perfume and tasted its sweet honey sliding down your throat? Do you remember the way you waited for the right music, that would take you away, sweep you onto a dance floor of white and black tile, in soft shoes and flowing skirts whispering of sweet romances, softer still? Do you remember the way you were heart-broken?

Do you remember the way you cried? Does it seem silly to you now? Do you think in your oh-so-wise and elevated now that Fourteen was foolish? That she couldn’t possibly know love and all the joy and sorrow that comes with it, gift-wrapped?

Do you remember the nights that never ended as you sat up cold and lonely in your bed, and prayed for a morning that you feared, prayed for some new daylight?

Do you remember how Fourteen felt?


- Kristin, age 14

Letter to My Past Self, Draft One:


Dear Self,


You are much younger and sillier than I am, happier and heartier. You haven’t broken your heart or jumped off of a cliff. You haven’t lived yet, and for that I pity you.


I remember you; you were such a bitch. You didn’t know how to talk to people, speak proper and polite. Mom and Dad were always using the word “tact” in remonstrance, “tact”—they repeated it so often, because you had a stunning lack of it.


You are so full of yourself, your own importance; you know that you’re smart and you haven’t learned dignity or humility yet. You haven’t learned so many things, and yet you still go around and parade about your intelligence, like you’re so much better and smarter than all the adults around you. I hate that about you, but, you know what, I do that too. Still. Much as I hate it, much as it gets me into trouble, I still do it. I wish your head hadn’t been so big, that you’d learned modesty and tact a little better, because I think that would help me to be more grounded now.


Sometimes I wish you hadn’t made the mistakes you had, but I remember how difficult it all was for you; you were so awkward, always have been, I guess. I remember just a few years before your time, how everyone would make fun of you—surely you remember that, too? How traumatic that was? You were almost ashamed of being smart, but not quite. You still talked to your teacher during recess, still counted Shakespeare's Complete Works as your favorite book, even then, even in the fourth grade, counted it your favorite, all 1200 pages of it.


You were something else, you know that? You didn’t know anybody else like you, and maybe that was a good thing, because you were fragile and strange and maybe the only thing that kept you going was the fact that you were unique. The fact that there was only one you in this whole wide crazy universe, the fact that you were irreplaceable—that was what motivated you.


Sure, you screwed up a lot, tripped and fell flat on your face probably much more times than was healthy, but you learned how to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, get up and keep on running.


You didn’t know your own strength—you didn’t even have that strength yet. I had to build it for you, every step of the slow and painful process. But look at what I made of you—was it worth it? Am I worth it? I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. So just tell me the truth, tell me the truth and I won’t shudder or start, won’t tell you you’re wrong, you’re lying, won’t insist that I’m much more than what I’ve built.


Sometimes I wish things now were as simple as they had seemed then.


Sometimes I wish things then had been as simple as they seem now.

What I’m trying to say is, don’t forget.
That’s all I can ask of you, I suppose.
I can’t tell you how to live your life.

When to walk away, with steps slow and measured, head held high, yet strangely subdued, when to know you have to turn around quick before it’s too late and run right back, stumbling a little in your blind haste, before you lose sight of that ephemeral perfection.

I can’t tell you the way you have to go, that there’s no other option, none but this one that can be called RIGHT. Because you’re you and I’m me and sometimes right is left is wrong. I know what I want and you do too and maybe some day after time and space have stretched and grown into something new, maybe someday we’ll realize that they’re not antonyms after all, but rather the same exact thing watched through two very different pairs of eyes.


And sometimes the space of years cools and sometimes it rubs the window clean of the grime and the smudge and sometimes you need to take off your glasses to see what’s right in front of you, hands outstretched, palms up, ready to close and mold to the shape of yours whenever you’re ready to take them.

And maybe you’re going to need those years. To sort out which way’s up and just how the scale’s been tipped and measure out worth in dollops and grains and what makes you warm and why and what chills and what is just plain butterflies and what would be soft, no poison to sting and what spreads light like water, fluid and easy and what is supple and compliant, willing and able to bend, for you, and what is rigid and stone, cold and faceless, blind and indifferent to the poetry of your name and what is safe and what is REAL.

And I can’t show you the way, can’t drag you there on a string, because I haven’t got you like that, have I? And only you know, will I ever?


All I can do is beg you to remember.

And hope that you won’t have to do it with pain, like a sharp intake of breath, make you turn your head away quick because you can’t bear to look much longer, because it makes you heavy like you can’t define, like you lost everything but the dark and there’s no hand outstretched anymore, holding a match to burn a glowing veil to wrap you warm and guide you soft.


Because nothing hurts like catching a smile from across the room and knowing that you could have owned it all to yourself.

And knowing that you spit on it, ground it beneath your heel, left it lying in the dirt.

And even though you’ve both had those honey slow years, seeing, only you seeing, the traces of dust on that cross-room smile because even though I took it off the shelf and tried to shake it clean, I missed a spot that just won’t come, a hole I don’t know how to patch because the needle’s rusted and the thread has snapped and it pulls at some string inside of you, some pointed silver-sharp needle that pricks and that would mend it in a second if not for that room and those years between.


I don’t want you to take those years to be ready and find I’ve retired that to some sad dark but not forgotten corner and those flowers—barely more than buds now—will have bloomed and wilted, turned brown and tired and dry in that darkened corner and even though I want them to live again no matter how much water you add it’ll never be enough, no matter how much sun you find hidden behind those curtains long drawn to hide that sad and pale face, hollow and peaked, it’ll never be enough because they’ve been choked with dust.

I don’t want you to forget, but I don’t want my heart to rust either.

I’ll take mine out every night and polish it careful, if you promise me, promise YOURSELF, to remember, to not let snow and ice and cold reign forever, so that someday you’ll have flowers of your own, to give to someone who’s ready and willing to take them, hold them gently so the fragile green leaves and tender soft buds won’t snap, won’t crush.

If you’ll remember and save one of those inside for me. Long-stemmed and red as your hot-beating blood, single and perfect. Remember and save it for me, under glass.

Maybe you’ll need those years, but I don’t want them to carry on the wind bitter heartache and sleepless nights. I want you to only have the perfume of summer and the sun on your face, warm, and butterflies, so bright and many, flitting about the tall green spears of wild grasses.

I want all the best for you and I want you to remember.

I want you to feel how I do, something strong and alive, but not if it’s going to hurt, not if it’s going to cause you pain. Not if it’s going to eat you up with waking hours in the pitch and utter dark, not if it’s going to corrode your joy into some twisted lump of cold, limp melancholy.

So just remember, and keep it safe, under glass if you must, so the dust can’t creep in and fade the beauty of might-have-been.

Remember and know, those smiles across the room, you own them all.

But it's a Saturday night and I'm sitting here holding back tears



I don't even know why.

There's nothing wrong with me.

I'm fine.



I have no tragedy. I HAVE NO EMOTION AT ALL. I am right now trapping myself inside of this bubble, like the plastic bag I'm suffocating in, trapping myself inside of this bubble and it keeps me safe, but I can't feel a thing either. So sure, the fire isn't burning, but I think I'm getting a little too cold without it. And I think I'm forgetting how to move on the outside.



But I'm fine. I don't hurt. I'm not sad.

And I don't miss you. I made that decision on my own.



You've been erased, deleted. Of course, I can still see the white-out that obliterated your name, but I don't want to scratch it off and dig out you. I don't miss you.



I'm still on a shelf, yes. But I'm for sale, I think. I'm not reserved. Not on layaway, waiting for you, collecting dust.



I'm not choking on your absence.



And yet I'm holding in tears. Sitting here, sitting next to my loneliness and nothing and no one else, sitting here and holding back the sting of salt and water that’s been lingering at the corners of my eyes. What the fuck is that?



I don’t talk to you, I don’t look at you, and I am doing the best I can to not even think about you. But a person says your name to me, and it stabs like a hidden dagger in the hands of a brother, so unexpected, so bitter. I can’t say anything at all. I freeze. I can’t move my face and my throat feels like I’ve just swallowed liquid nitrogen. I can’t do a thing as I try and down that poison that used to be nectar. I can hardly move, mumble what I meant to say and what he had not heard, what he had thought was you. Mumble it embarrassed and turn real swift head out the door not daring to breathe holding in the carbon dioxide because I’m worried that it’s clutching the hand of tears and there is no way I’m going to let that out either. And then I’m through the doorway and explode, release it as anger, pain. Explode you away and maybe in all the fallout I can unearth something worthy. Because that is everything you’re not.



Christ. I’m not strong enough to be hit with that in such a way when I know for a fact that one single glance would drop me like a stone from the sky into your arms.

But your arms are folded and my eyes are closed.

So I won’t have to see that. So I won’t have to see you and wonder if you see me too.

I don’t want to ask myself that. I don’t want to care. And I am trying so hard to do this like I want, do it without turning into some bitch of stone, turning into some female you. I don’t want to be cold and impassable. I want warm and open, but I don’t want scarred.
Because you ruined things for me. You ruined me.

Do you know what it is to offer some one the best thing you’ve got and have them spit all over it? Do you know how hard it is going to be for me to try and give that to someone else, second hand? Knowing, remembering—and the salt still stings—the way it got banged around and mussed up and dragged in the dirt and the shit, the way it got stepped on when I tried to share it with somebody before?
Do you know how hard that is going to be for me?



Why am I even saying this? To let you know, I guess.

Game over, I lose. But you’ve lost, too. You just don’t know it yet.

But someday you will. Maybe in a few years once you’ve mellowed out you’ll have many a night of heartache? Tough shit. I’ve had mine already.



But the reason, the reason why I’m resisting breakdown just barely, just by a tender, slender silver thread, the reason why is because people are shit.

I cannot believe some of the things they say, the words they throw around, like angry darts, only they’re not aiming at any dartboards; they’re aiming at other people and they’re intent on drawing blood. I cannot believe some of the things that I have heard and I have said, I have written and I have read. We all suck. You know that? We ALL suck. Without exception. People are awful. We’re lying, cringing, sneaky, deceptive, heinous, rotten, despicable creatures.

Starting tomorrow I’m going to be a penguin, because I can’t handle people anymore. Can’t handle the twisted and cruel games we all play, for no other reason than that we can. I’m sick of being played that way, and I’m sick of playing it myself. I’m sick of the sorrow and the hatred and the treason, and all the other evils we heap on one another. I’m sick of people. Because we’re all shit. And we’re not going to change.

I’m sick of best friends who don’t even talk to each other. Who sit in the same room five times a day and don’t speak a damn word. We pass each other like ghosts in a hall, like we’ve got no eyes to see the lines on the other’s face, the darkened circles, the heavy and weary that’s holding your head and mine, down under the water, drowning us slow and sure, drowning us. Like we’ve got no voices to speak, to call out and say that I’m cold and I’m lonely and I miss the way our palms touched and our voices and our laughter blended to one and I miss the way you got my jokes and the way you were soft around the edges. Because you’ve gotten harder. Maybe we all have. But I know for sure you’ve gotten harder. All the drama of this year, the flailing and sinking—you’ve been buried under a mountain of melted rock, only instead of screaming and demanding to be freed, you just sort of let sit, until the rocks hardened and cooled on your skin and now they’re a part of you. And the soft that I loved so much, that we all loved. That’s ALL gone. And I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know a single part. Because everywhere I look, it’s just rock. That’s all I can see. And it’s under your skin. And it’s in your blood. And I just don’t see how it’s ever going to go away.



And the reason, the reason why I’m prickling wet is because, because we’ve all let ourselves get lost. And we’ve all watched everyone else fall off somewhere along the road, we’ve all followed some other dark and different path and instead of calling out a warning, when we see that yet another is tripping and stumbling in the wrong direction, instead of urging on to the right way, instead of holding up our own lantern to lend some light to the echoing dim of the night we’ve just stood and watched the helpless thrashing in the wilderness, the hopelessness, the despair in a black that’s thick with silence and comfort fleeing in the face of this onslaught of loss, we’ve all just stood and fucking watched as slowly, one by one, each and every single one of us has died. And died again.


What the fuck is wrong with you? And what is wrong with me? And what is wrong with them? What the fuck is wrong with people, that we can just stand and watch our best and closest, watch their pain and their struggle, watch their suffering like it’s a fucking sport?
What the fuck is wrong with each and every single one of us?



I think there’s some sort of a defect with the word human. So I’m demanding a new one. I don’t want this to be my label any more. I don’t want this stain of humanity, this stench, this whole long history of shit, I don’t want this to be me, not any more. I have had seventeen years of it, and that is far more than enough.

I’m sick of people, and I’m sick of being one.

Starting tomorrow, I’m a penguin. And I’ll be roaming free on some big fucking block of ice if you care to join. And if I’m killed by some other wild beast, well, that’s okay. I can handle that, because that’s the way it’s meant to be.


But we’re not supposed to kill ourselves.

And that is just what we’re doing.

We call ourselves friends.

But we’re all standing around and watching the bleeding, and nobody’s grabbing a towel, to staunch the flow, to wrap the wound.





We call ourselves friends.

But we’re standing around and watching the dying.

And none of us is doing a thing.





Be a penguin with me?

And then you get to that point where you're just weary. Just weary of the world.


And you think to yourself: My god...I'm only seventeen; this is when my life is supposed to be beginning. These are supposed to be my glory days. So why am I just so sick of the living and all the trials it carries with it?



I love life and I love living, honestly I do.



But right now this doesn't
even feel like a life.



And I'm asking myself:

Do I deserve to be saved?

Do I deserve to get out?

Where the sun's not so cheap

and bottles aren't made of plastic

and the smell is not sweet but bitter like chocolate

and the air is for free?

Do I deserve real life?



And right now I don't

really think that I do.

I'm not giving enough, to get that much out.



But I'm only seventeen,

and my life's just beginning.

These are the glory

days.

So why am I just

so sick of the living

and all of the trials

it carries with it?



Don't try and tell

me otherwise,

because this is my new dream,

and I've had it all my life,

and much as you have stolen

you won't take this away.

So deal.



Just tell me you're cold

and I'll tell you I'm lonely.

And we'll find that conversation

can fill in that void

and fill it with warmth.

And we'll find that the

chill and the absence don't bite

as hard and as empty as they used.

to.

sometimes you get something you're not expecting and you know you certainly don't deserve. thank you. that was the sweetest thing-->exactly what i needed. i don't think i deserved that from you; i don't think i've truly earned it. and that is why it meant all the more. and i feel like i probably haven't given you all the credit that's your due, and for that i apologize.



i go off on a tirade, ranting about how heinous people are, and then someone nice just sort of falls into my lap, unexpected, unbidden.



and i think that maybe we should all try and tell people daily how important and wonderful and special they all are. because sometimes you get so bogged down in all the crap, and you forget that you are a beautiful human being. and if nobody ever reminds you, you start to believe that you're not, and all that beauty and wonder that is uniquely you, you start to believe it was never there, and it all fades to gray.



i need to remind all of my friends that they're perfect, because i know i don't usually tell them, and i think that maybe i don't show it either.

i love the ones I've been waiting for
and i love the ones i don't expect.




...I just wanted you to know.

try and catch me BITTTTTTTCCHHHHH!!! hahahahaha i don't think that anyone likes "clone high" as much as i do... it's hysterical i swear... and this is the last quiz i'll do in forever, i'll be creative now, i swear... wesley...

You're Joan Of Arc! And trust me, I'm not just one
of your voices speaking. Actually, I'm the
test.
(image credit: mtv.com)


What Clone High personality are you?
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bitchiiiiiiiin.



You have an entrancing kiss~ the kind that leaves
your partner bedazzled and maybe even feeling
he/she is dreaming. Quite effective; the kiss
that never lessens and always blows your
partner away like the first time.


What kind of kiss are you?
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You're the loving smile,the one that is entirely
devoted to others,especially that one
person.You really can't get them out of your
head,but then,you don't really want to.


What Kind of Smile are You?
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Crush


What Dave Matthews Song Are You?
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YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY IM STILL HERE!!!!!! :):):) I HEART GENERAL ELECTRIC... KIND OF...

thanks so much for being who you are. you amaze me.

i don't think that anyone has a worse life than i do, and if you beg to differ, bring it, because you'll leave crying. no lie. i have to be the most depressing person in the entire universe.



my mind was someplace else today at tennis lessons, and i honestly can't really afford to do that. i was hitting everything into the net, serves and all. i was out of breath, swearing my head off, and smashing my racquet into the ground and into the wall. it was messy, and ridiculous. but i mean, what's to expect right... i mean, after all...



it's final. i'm gone this august.



and i've wished for this to happen, i really have. after all of the stupid fights and stupid high school drama that really doesn't matter to me now, i would think "god just get me the hell out of here and away from these people i can't stand it." and you know, here it is. and god picked one hell of a time too... once i was actually feeling GOOD about my social life and everything.



i mean, this year i've met some really amazing people, i've lost some friendships, and i've strengthed a lot. i suppose i could be annoying and say "yea you guys know who you are" right now just because a lot of people have shaped this year into something completely different... but dina maris kate lil sis thanks a lot for everything...



i'm just going to miss a lot of people, and a lot of experiences. i can't believe this is happening my senior year.



i can't believe that my mom was diagnosed.



i can't believe that i'm doing so shitty in school.



and other wounds have been opened recently as well... i miss you jess, even though you probably could give two shits about me. but family is family, again even though you don't consider me as family... god dammit you're my sister i can't believe you did that.



but whatever, i'm kind of rambling about a lot...



i just thank everything for what there is left to live for. as little as that is, it's enough....



and i just want to thank someone right now, they know who they are, for really helping me out the other day. for saving my life. i love you like family. you're one of the people i'll miss the most...



but i guess i'm getting ahead of myself. there's always that possibility, right? and with so many people praying, or saying that they are, something good is bound to happen. and for someone as incredibly pessimistic as i am trying to stay positive is a miracle really, so maybe another will take place. i'll know at the end of the week.