Happiness.

How do you measure happiness? Is it by telling friends and family that you are having a good day? Is it by posting a smiley face as your Facebook status? Is it by actually wearing a smile on your face? Is happiness only acknowledged when others are made aware of it? Or can you just be happy and no one else has to know? I know there are times when I find myself smiling while I am walking outside or driving in the car or laying in bed, and only I know about this smile. Maybe when we are happy, we just naturally want others to know. We want to share our happiness.

However, can happiness be quantified? Can we say that we are happy at one time, but happier at another? And do both these emotions count as happiness, or should we split them up into various terms that describe degrees of happiness? And why must it be so complicated? Can’t we just say we are happy and be done with it?

I once read a book where it was this guy’s job to calculate the likelihood of happiness. He has this whole equation and would plug a bunch of stuff into it.  And as I read this, I couldn’t help thinking what a bunch of crap it sounded like. Can happiness really be as simple as plugging x and y into an equation? Can we create our own happiness by following such a guideline?

I think part of what makes happiness so exciting and thrilling is that  it isn’t always expected. Actually, I feel like most people, who have been prone to the difficulties of reality, expect for life to be rough and for happiness to only be rare. For most people, those smiles are welcomed because they are not worn often enough.

It is funny because I often say that all I want is to be happy. It sounds kind of immature now that I think about it. It is almost foolish. At the same time, it is optimistic and I can’t help but still long for it. I think happiness is attainable. It never stays forever – moments of sadness are bound to penetrate – but, I think if someone works hard for it, happiness can, and will, come.

When I think of happiness, I imagine the rays of the sun beaming in between clouds. That is kind of how it feels. There is all this crap clouding our lives most of the time. But then, every once in a while, we have that moment where the light shines through, and things are clear and bright and good.

There is that song from Rent about how to measure the life in a year. And it makes me wonder how to measure happiness in a year. Is it birthday parties and days off, Saturday mornings in bed, a hot bath after a long day? Is happiness being with friends, seeing a movie, getting caught up in a good book? Is there any way to define it and pinpoint it? Or is happiness bound to be different for everyone?

We can usually recognize happiness. There is a difference between a real smile and a fake one. The forced one hurts. The real one is effortless. There is a difference between going through the motions and having a bounce in your gait. We can see it in others. We can see it in ourselves. We will gravitate towards those who have the happiness. Maybe we hope that by being by them, we, too, will become happier.

I am not writing this because I am unhappy. On the contrary, I love my life and I love who I am. I am happy, overall. Yes, I will have my moments where I break down or have a bad day. It reminds me of Daniel Powter’s one-hit wonder: “Bad Day.” But, my sadness rarely persists. For that, I am thankful, because I know people who struggle with the sadness every day. And I can only imagine the loneliness they feel, the darkness they experience, the helplessness that weighs them down.

Right now I am sipping coffee and I can feel my heart racing as I gulp it down quick. I am late for a meeting, and yet I feel the urge to finish this writing while I am in the mood. So, I say goodbye and I smile, because I can, because I want to, because I like to. And I hope that those who read this, smile, too. Because I like smiles. They make me happy.

Perspective.

I am in a stranger’s home. Well, it is not a stranger’s. It is the family I babysit for. But, their home is still a bit strange to me. It does not feel like home. It is not like a friend’s place, where you at least feel comfortable. This place, while it is comfortable, still feels different. I have only been here four times. That is not enough times yet to make it feel homey.

There is a picture frame on the wall made up of three photos. It has gotten me thinking about the number three. I have never really liked this number. It is odd. I like even numbers more. I, myself, am partial to the numbers two and four. They are nice even numbers and when put together, they form twenty four, my favorite number. Three, however, is just an awkward number. It is like half an eight – split right down the middle. If it were actually an eight, it would form two circles and it would look full. But a three looks jagged and forlorn.

Many things come in three’s – Freud’s id, ego, and superego. There are three colors on a traffic light. There are three main meals in a day. The Hebrew word shalom means three things – hello, goodbye, and peace. There are three main eye colors. There are three main levels of schools – Elementary, Middle, and High school. Babies can be born in three’s, though this is rare. There are three peas in a pod. There are three leaf clovers. When you are young, you might saw “free” instead of “three.” It is cute. In fairy tales, things often occur in three’s – “The Three Little Pigs,” “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” etc.

Three times eight is twenty four. You would have to add three eight times to reach my favorite number. It is weird to think about the fact that my favorite number is comprised of a number I don’t like. Maybe that is how life is – we like the overall product, just not necessarily all the little messy details.

My stomach is grumbling and my mouth is dry. I don’t know where the water is here and I don’t want to eat their food. I brought a water bottle and stupidly left it in the car. So close and yet so far! I keep dreaming of waterfalls and pools and ice cubes and faucets.

It is unbearably hot outside. I can’t wait for cool breezes and scarf weather. I can’t wait to wear leggings and boots and winter dresses. I can’t wait for hot chocolate and hot coffee and snuggling on the couch to stay warm.

Five days until I see him.

The word home does not mean a physical place. I have learned this. I feel at home with certain people, not necessarily in certain places. Being at home, I think, means being comfortable in your own skin. I have many homes. There is the home I was born, the home I resided in last week, the home I live in now. There is the home I feel when I am with my boyfriend, or best friend, or classmates. There is the sensation of walking down a street and smelling in the fresh air and knowing that this is where I belong. This is home. At least for now. Home is always changing. It is kind of scary to think that your place in the world is not permanent; your home is not fixed. The strength of the walls around you is subject to change and move and collapse and be rebuilt. That is just the cycle of life. And sometimes the move is refreshing and the change is good and much needed. Often, the journey is more exciting than the end destination.

I am staring at a fake flower on the table in front of me. It looks pretty until you look close and you see the plastic and torn fabric. And then it just looks drab and lifeless.

When I grow older, I want a garden. I want to grow flowers, especially sunflowers. I want to walk outside and feel my mood uplifted as I see my garden. I want to watch the flowers blossom and grow and die and grow back. I want to see that rebirth. I want to be reminded that life is never really over.

People can have a threesome. In baseball it is three strikes and you are out. If you get a field goal in football, you get three points. In the board game “Clue,” you guess three things when it is your turn – person, place, and object. A series of three books is a trilogy. A Haiku is composed of three lines. In music, three notes form a chord. There are three deathly hallows in Harry Potter. There is the common saying “three times is the charm.”

I am looking again at the frame with three pictures. It looks good on the wall. Maybe three is not such a bad number after all. Or maybe I just need to view it as twenty four split up in eight pieces. If I look at it that way, then three is just a part of something bigger. It is all about perspective. You take three different people and have them look at the same image, and they will see three different things. That is the beauty of life – we can all look at the number three and maybe you see two sideways U’s, and someone else sees a bird laying on its side, and then maybe someone else sees half of an eight. That is the beauty of interpretation. It is gray. It is open. It is alive.

Blink and your perspective has probably changed just a little bit. Blink again and maybe it has changed completely. Walk away and come back, and you won’t even recognize what once was.  Or maybe it all stays the same and you walk away no more the wiser. And that would be a pity.

Life.

Today I got to witness how death can tear apart a family. I got to see the different ways in which people internalize and externalize death. I heard the stretcher being wheeled down the hallway and caught a glimpse of the body rounding the corner. To think that a dead body was in the other room while there I was sitting and breathing, my heart beating fast. To watch an old man’s eyes tear up as he thinks about what he could have done differently. To hear about how he walked into the bedroom to find her still and dead. To be torn up with grief and guilt. To be plagued with questions. And then another women who has lost her sister and best friend, sits and seems shocked and paralyzed with sadness. Throughout it all, I have to remain calm. I have to listen and be there for these people. It was an experience, to say the least.

Right now I sit in my bed and I can’t get the image out of mind – the overwhelming look on their faces. The police stood there, unsure of what to say or do – they were uncomfortable and more than willing to pass the hard stuff onto us. That is our job, though. We put our hands deep in the dirt and get in the dark well with them. We go to that deep place. It is not easy, but it is our job. The funeral people smiled when they walked in and I thought to myself  – how the hell can you smile? how the hell can you make a joke about the wood floors and pretend to be sincere, when your smile is as fake as your wannabe designer watch? They were transparent, these people – as genuine as a piece of plastic pretending to be glass.

I sat on the floor, and I felt actual dirt on my hands. It wasn’t a nice house. It was hot in there, but I kept my jacket on, welcoming the heat, feeling the heat, wanting something to keep me present and alert. The floor was hard and I felt my leg falling asleep. The tingly pins were working there way up and down my calf. The sister was sitting there and my eyes kept traveling back to her – she stared out at nothing. She was mentally ill. The brother was so devastated, so sad, that I knew my words could only do so much.

Death just happens, sometimes. You can’t always predict it or prepare yourself for it. Even when you know it is coming, it still knocks the wind out of you and leaves you feeling weak and unstable. Death is a powerful blow. You don’t wake up thinking that someone you know might die that day. This family sure didn’t. And then death comes and you have to confront it, and accept it, and then move on.

The only big death in my life so far has been my Nana. A while ago I wrote something about her. Here is an excerpt:

It has been around three years now, I believe, since my Nana passed away. My grandpa is not the same person he used to be. My dad is a bit different. Things have changed, people have changed. But one thing I have learned is that even after someone dies, life does go on. Flowers still bloom, birds still chirp, it rains, leaves fall, dogs bark – life goes on, and so must we.

Life doesn’t stop. I sometimes have to remind myself of this. I sometimes feel like I hide and I don’t live to my full potential. Part of me is tempted to write the giant word LIVE on my wall. That way every morning when I wake up, I can’t shy away from life. After this experience tonight, I don’t think I need that word written out for me anymore. I have internalized it, embraced it, fully realized how much I want to embody it. I want to live, always live. Never hide.

Cracked.

There is a crack in my wall. It is a fault line. And I am at fault for it.

You can crack a puzzle. You can crack a joke. You can crack an egg and watch as the yolk drips out slow and lazy. Earthquakes cause cracks in the earth. Falling down can crack a bone. If a glass falls, it will probably crack into little shards, sharp and sparkly. If you are crazy, you are cracked. You can crack a code. Over time, walls can crack. Barriers can only stand strong for so long.

It is raining right now, and I see the drops through the cracks in my blinds. I almost see the whole picture, but it is fragmented, split into pieces.

The thunder cracks outside. It sounds painful, like the whole world is hurting, and, therefore, crying. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and sleep.

There are cracks in my nail polish, making it look sloppy. Nail polish hardly stays completely intact beyond the first day. You can pay a lot of money to get it done, but it will still crack over time, so might as well save the dollars.

I like to crack open sunflower seeds. Pistachio nuts are a bit harder, especially when the shell decides to be difficult, and you can break a nail trying to pull it apart.

When I was younger, I played this game where I would only step on the cracks in the sidewalk. I had to jump from one crack to another, without touching the unblemished part in the middle. I probably looked really silly, and I guess I didn’t realize that most people considered the cracks to be the bad part of the sidewalk, and that I should be more superstitious. To me, the cracks were the safe areas. I have always been a bit backwards.

Growing up, I knew this lady who had a giant crack between two of her teeth. I liked to look between it and see her like dingy hanging in the back of her mouth. I was weird. I guess I still kind of am. But because of braces and spending thousands of dollars at the Orthodontist, most people don’t have cracked teeth. Those little quirks have been erased.

Metal is hard to crack. Plastic is easier. Glass is easiest. Except cracking glass seems the saddest. It is the most delicate, and when it cracks, the beauty is being tarnished. And then you have to pick up the pieces. Maybe it is a defense mechanism that glass shards can pierce the skin – a warning not to break glass, or else you will get hurt. Maybe this is glass’s way of protecting itself. Or maybe glass is glass, and it is just sharp, no questions asked.

Glaciers crack, and nowadays, with the heating of the Earth, glaciers are melting. To watch something slowly crack, to hear it creak and groan – there is something sad about the process. What was once whole, no longer is. There are two instead of one, or ten instead of five. This multiplication can be scary and uncontrollable. Monitoring cracks is not simple.

However, you can crack a smile. This can brighten up a face. You can listen to popcorn crack as you wait to watch a movie. If you eat Rice Crispies, they are supposed to Crackle, Snap, and Pop. You can crack open a door or window and let the sunshine inside a room. A crack doesn’t have to be the splitting of something whole, but it can be the opening of something more.

There is a crack in my wall. Part of me feels the urge to cover it up, to hide it. This blemish is my fault. It is weird to think about how we have the ability to cause fault lines – to break and tear and split things apart. However, I can buy some caulk and fix the crack. I can cover it up and fill it in, until it feels smooth once more. I can do that. I have a choice.

There is a crack in my wall. It stands out and looks a bit funny. It demands attention and draws the eye. It is uneven and a bit awkward. Some might even say it is obnoxious. But, it stands out against the normality around it.

There is a crack in my wall. But, you know what – I kind of like it.

 

 

I am a klutz.

Today has been one of those days where nothing you plan turns out right. The glass cup I was holding fell and shattered all over the kitchen floor and carpet in the dining room. That is perfect for the little puppy we now have living here. It took forever to pick up all the shards and there are probably still more, too tiny to catch the eye. Then, when I was opening up my salsa jar, it splattered all over my desk and floor. When I went to pick up the lid to the jar, it fell and splashed salsa all over my cords. I feel like a klutz. It has only confirmed that I am one.

I intended to do so much work today, but after all of this, I had to cheer myself up, so I watched The Princess and the Frog. Disney always provides you with happy endings.

Now it is 3:00 in the afternoon and I have achieved klutz status and nothing else. It is time to do work and hopefully I can delve in and be successful. All I want to do is continue to cut up old magazines for a poster and watch another cartoon movie. However, reality calls and I need to be responsible. The fantasy bubble is so much nicer sometimes.

I want to walk outside and see blue skies and feel a fresh breeze. I want to run in the sand by the ocean. I want to look outside my window and see a meadow of sunflowers. Instead I am staring at my salsa-stained floor and bowl of soggy Rice Crispies that I haven’t dumped in the sink yet.

I need to clean my room. I need to take a shower. I need to get going on this massive book for class. It is daunting. Instead, I feel like lounging around in my pajamas. But I know doing that will ultimately make me feel worse, unaccomplished, and lazy. Part of me wants to leave the apartment to study, but I am trying hard not to spend money and if I stay here, I am less likely to spend money.

Tonight I am going to buy some yarn and knit a scarf. I will also buy a poster board. I feel like being artsy. I want to put on my most artsy outfit with some red lipstick and imagine myself walking in New York City like one of those hip young artists, full of ideals and inspiration.

The clock is ticking, but it is the wrong time. It shows it being an hour earlier, which is deceiving and makes me feel like I have more time than I do. Maybe I can convince myself that it really is an hour earlier, and that I didn’t waste as much time as I think I did. Unfortunately, the little clock on my computer says otherwise.

I slept so well last night. I snuggled under my covers, with Wizzer, my stuffed dog, by my side. We keep each other company.

There are many candles in my room, but I have never lit them. I guess I am afraid to. Klutz that I am, I don’t have the best track record. I would probably burn the place down. I sometimes have this nightmare, when I climb down the stairs and walk to my car, that I forgot to turn off my straight iron and that it will burn its way through the counter and catch on fire and the whole building will burn and collapse. Then when the firefighters locate the point of origin, everyone will know it was me and blame me for being careless and stupid. Sometimes I run back up to make sure I actually did turn it off, because I have convinced myself it is still on and hot. It never is. I am just being silly.

Well, enough procrastinating. Reality can only be put on hold for so long. Soon the alarm clock will ring, the glass in your hand will drop and crash, you will find yourself standing in a puddle of salsa. These things can’t be ignored. Even if they have been cleaned up, other realities will soon emerge – my deadline to finish this book, the clothing on my floor that needs to be cleaned up, the food in my fridge that needs to be cooked for dinner, the time the craft store closes.

There are the rare moments when I feel like the world around me doesn’t matter, and that I can escape into another world for a short bit. In this world, I am blissfully happy and I just let myself live in the moment. During these moments, I don’t hear the drunk people walking outside late at night. I don’t notice the blotches of unevenness on my wall. I don’t notice how I need to shave my legs or pluck my eyebrows. I just think about the moment and how alive I feel. And happy.

My teeth need to be brushed. I am going to do that. That is my reality at the moment.

Jury Duty.

I feel like I have neglected my blog. I know I have neglected my blog.

I have my juror tag hooked onto my sweater and I sit here waiting, bored. I spilled coffee on my skirt a couple minutes ago, and I must say that the brown looks quiet awesome on the white sections of my skirt. Maybe if the judge calls me in he will think I am a slob and decide not to use me on the jury. Maybe I should purposely spill some on my shirt, too – really go for the full effect.

Some days the minutes seem long,  so long, and I can tell that today is going to be one of those days. The most boring people walk by, and I can’t even comment on them, because they strike me as so bland and uninteresting.

When I walked into the court house this morning, the building was so big and impressive and I felt so small in comparison. Part of me thinks it would be really neat to work here, to walk in with my coffee every morning, feeling important. Only big important people work in such a big important building.

It is freezing in here. Right now I am dreaming of hot baths and hot springs and spilling more hot coffee on me – like a waterfall. Except then my hair would stick awkwardly to my face and get in my eyes and smear my makeup and it would just look gross.

I feel my future changing. I feel it taking shape. I feel the possibilities and yet the uncertainties. It is thrilling and exciting at once.

One thing I have realized is that nothing stays static. If one thing increases, another will probably decrease. There is not room for both at the same time. And if there is room for both, one will take a slight precedence over another.

Right now I am thinking about sleeping tucked under the covers – all warm and cozy. I am thinking about laying on the couch curled up in a ball and reading a book. I am thinking about cuddling and hot chocolate. There is soup in the picture as well – mom’s homemade chicken noodle.

Warmth – that is what I want. This room is too white and too cold. It feels sterile.

They just called in some more jurors. They haven’t chosen me yet. I don’t know if that is a good or bad thing.

So I continue sitting here – bored, bored, bored.

I miss him.

My allergies are bad from my cat. He is a big cat, especially compared to the new puppy my roommate got. The cat could squish the puppy. The natural order of things – cats run from dogs – is being put at risk. My cat is the dominant one – the Alpha cat. You don’t want to mess with him.

They just called more people. I escaped being called again. My coffee is getting cold, but at least it is keeping me awake.

People walk by in business suits and look important. I wonder who they are, where they are headed, if they are really anything at all. Maybe it is all a front. Maybe they are the most insecure people around, and that beneath the false confidence, they are only like everyone else – trying to figure out who they are. Or maybe they are narcissistic lawyers who think the world revolves around them. I keep Peeping Tom and glancing at them. They are fascinating, and at the same time very cliched. It is hard to tell if they are saying anything interesting or if they are just murmuring nonsense, like we all do.

Oh no! They just walked by and looked at the computer screen. Had to close it real fast so they couldn’t sneak attack a glimpse. I feel like some secret detective. But in reality I am just trying to entertain myself from monotony and a skirt with a large coffee stain on it.

The guy across from me keeps looking my way. I wonder if he knows I am writing about the people around me. If so, he can feel special now that he has had a shout out in my writing.

A police officer just walked in – a puny looking one. Wait, the man is puny, but the woman is not. How society has changed. It is refreshing.

I feel like I look suspicious now, with my little glances.

I can’t wait for the lunch break. I am not hungry, but the chance to leave this building and wonder around downtown is exciting. There are bound to be interesting characters and good food choices – better than this dinky cafe that looks as unappealing as college cafeteria food. Actually, college food looks better. That is saying something.

I think I might go back into the assembly room and do some more people-watching. I will also attempt to do some work and keep my eyes open. I might write another entry later.

Dear Blog,

I have neglected you, but I intend on fixing that.

Yours Truly,

Detective Juror.

Restless Nights…

I can’t sleep.It is 1:21 in the morning here, and 2:21 in the morning back home. I toss and turn and my head is just filled with thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. I am anxious and worried. It is horrible. Right now I am sitting in a bathroom with princess shower curtains and fishy decor. I feel so far from home and I just have too many thoughts on my mind. Sometimes it is better not knowing things. Then you don’t worry.

My friend is asleep in the other room and I feel silly in the bathroom. But I can’t sleep and am sick of laying in the bed. I wish I could be her right now far away in dreamland with no worries or fears. Instead I am crouched on the floor hungry, tired, and feeling really awkward. There are princess dresses hanging from the walls and it makes me wish I could escape into a Disney movie where you know everything is going to turn out okay.

If you didn’t already get it, I am staying in a little kid’s room. The bed is little, the drawers are little. I feel big in it, which is refreshing since I usually feel short next to all my tall friends.

I keep scratching at this bite on my arm. It is a nervous habit. I guess I am a bit nervous. Well anxious is a better term to use. My stomach is growling and my head has been throbbing for hours. I just want to sleep. And I know I won’t be able to until I get a text message.

I am so excited for this weekend, but now I am afraid I will be tired. And once you start thinking about getting no sleep, it is hard to sleep. It is a deadly game to play. But I am afraid I might already be trapped in the game.

I don’t want to stop writing because that means going back in the dark room and trying to go sleep and hoping to receive a text message and yet not seeing any appear. I know I am being stupid right now, but it is hard when you care about someone, to not worry about him or her, too. It kind of is a package deal.

Today I got some packages in the mail. Books. They are for my senior thesis. Is it dorky that I am excited to read them? Maybe a bit. But that is okay. Apparently I am a dork. Not a nerd. A dork. There is a difference.

Well, I should probably go back to trying to sleep. I probably won’t be able to, but this bathroom floor is hard and hurting my butt. The soft mattress would be a nice change. I just want to know that everything is okay. Is that too much to ask?

Starbucks in Tampa (a different scene).

I think I am going to need a second cup of coffee today. Hotels are not the best places for sleeping. Especially during thunderstorms and lightening strikes. The room was too cold, and then too hot, and then too cold again. It was hard to get it right. However, being in another city is fun. Right now I am sitting at a Starbucks, however, the people here are not as interesting as in Boca.

There is a dog, though. A beagle. It is a cute dog, and looks like it belongs with the couple – a young guy and woman. They look like they are in love. It is sweet.

My toes are painted light purple, which matches my purple dress. This wooden chair is making my butt soar. I am contemplating driving around and exploring. After studying GRE for a couple hours, I am now bored. And tired. Maybe I will go look at the beautiful mansions again. Or maybe I will walk in the mall and be tempted to buy things. But I won’t. I will be good. And I won’t go to the mall.

My best friend is taking the MCAT. I feel anxious for her. I keep checking my phone to see if she has texted and to see what time it is. Man, that test is long. Once again I am thanking myself for choosing not to go the pre-med route. I don’t need to die prematurely. I like living, thank you.

Today I get to see him, and I am excited. But we are both tired, and I hope that doesn’t hinder or affect the mood. I like when he smiles. I hope he does when he sees me.

They are playing a Michael Buble song in Starbucks. I love this song. It is jazzy and fun and makes me feel light and young. It makes me want to dance. But I won’t break out in dance in the middle of Starbucks. I’m not that crazy. Though sometimes I do stuff like that in my dreams. Nothing ever makes sense in my dreams. They are usually all twisted.

Okay, well I think I am going to move around and do something. I don’t know yet what I will do. But I am sick of just sitting here. It is time to move. Let’s go!

 

Falling

Sometimes I dream that I am falling. When I wake up, my whole body kind  of jumps out of the bed and then collapses back down into it. Many things fall. Leaves fall. Usually this is during Fall. There are waterfalls. There are downfalls. Rain falls down out of the sky. Athletes fall down during a game. During a hurricane, trees fall, houses can fall, worlds might fall apart. An apple fell on a scientist’s head, and, alas, we had gravity. Sand castles fall down when a tide comes. Monarchies fall, dictators fall, leaders fall. Worlds can fall apart in the blink of an eye.

I have fallen apart many times in my life. But, I have always somehow put myself back together. Well, maybe it isn’t so much that I put myself back together, piece by piece, the way it had been, but I found a way for the new me in this new life to work. It is not always about making things how they once were, but learning to live in a new world, adapting.

To literally fall down is painful. You can bleed, skin can tear, wounds are formed. There is a visual mark. And while the cut may heal and the blood will dry up and be wiped off, a scar might remain. Falls are not easily erased.

The British fell out of power. Lincoln fell when he was shot. Lady Gaga once fell when walking in her ridiculous platform boots (it was only a matter of time). Celebrities fall in and out of favor with the press and fans. So does the president.

People fall in and out of love. This falling, it is almost something inevitable. It is almost something that can’t be helped. Are we, as humans, bound to fall and fall and fall again? Is that the life we are meant to live? If so, that is exhausting and we better pack some good helmets and knee pads.

When I first learned to skate, I fell. A lot. The bruises started to form a tapestry upon my legs. But, I always got back up – maybe it was childhood naivety and bravery. Maybe it was foolishness. But, I continued to skate and I got good. But, I eventually stopped skating – I can’t remember why.

The thing is, we will fall. That is life. Gravity makes sure of this. Unless we are on the moon, we can’t just jump without knowing we won’t be instantaneously forced back to the ground. There is safety in knowing we can’t just jump without limits. It would be scary if we jumped and jumped and could end up anywhere. At least with gravity, we know where we stand.

A body can fall apart with old age. Friends may fall apart after time. During summer afternoons, one can expect rainfalls. Snow falls in the winter if it is cold enough. Heroes fall and might turn into villains. Sometimes a lie can fall into pieces and the truth is utterly overwhelming. It can leave you staggering for breath and the carefully sculpted world you once created has fallen apart. Clothing can fall apart at the seams. String is only so strong. A person can fall in and out of reality. Sometimes the dream is more comforting. Sometimes it is a nightmare instead.

The thing is, falling is just what we do. It is what makes us human, what makes us real. However, it is what we do after the fall, that really defines us.

All over the place.

There is nothing like the sound of ice cube crunching against teeth. The sound of dripping water is obnoxious when one is trying to sleep. Ticks of a clock will eventually become unnoticeable. Clicking fingers on a keyboard when one is trying to study can go either way – they can be incredibly annoying or they can just sort of help with moving forward, propelling one to study. The loudest noise can sometimes be the quietest one.

The worst is when you ask a question and expect an answer. Another bad one is when you walk into a room and your shoes are just a bit too loud and clankity-clank against the floor as you move. And then people stare. A cough or sneeze in a silent classroom is awkward. When you are telling someone something serious, really opening up to someone, and all he or she does is stare, or maybe he or she doesn’t even look at you at all – that burns. Silence can sting. It can make one numb. Silence has many types, some more deadly than others.

And sometimes silence is comforting. Sometimes it means a gentle pat on the shoulder, room to breathe, gather one’s thoughts. Silence doesn’t have to be bad, and so many of us are unused to it, growing up in a world of constant noise. I once had a teacher say she went out to a retreat in India and they all had to climb to the top of this mountain and not say a word to anyone else for a week. These people were all virtually separated from each other and stayed on different parts of the mountain. It was silence to an extreme. It was to be alone with one’s thoughts and have to face oneself fully. It sounds terrifying.

I am scared of being alone. Sometimes I really like it. But I am scared of ending up alone, of having no one. Not that I think this will ever happen. It is still scary to think about.

There is a light shining in the corner of this room and it is very bright. If I stare into it, I am blinded, and then I wonder why the hell I stared into it in the first place. I can be rather stupid at times.

My fingers are tired from playing too much FreeCell. I am addicted.

I wonder if my butt is making an imprint in the couch. I don’t think this is a butt imprint couch. The material isn’t quite right for that. The carpet is a foot imprint carpet. Sometimes. Only if you press real hard. Put the pressure on something, and it will usually give.

There is a word on the wall across from me: LIVE. A close friend of mine recently said how sometimes it feels like she is living, but that she is not alive. The two words seem close enough, right? No. I get what she means – she is here, physically. Yes, she is living in this world and is taking up space. She is matter, she has weight. But, she doesn’t feel alive. She doesn’t feel here in the moment, really truly breathing the air and moving around and enjoying life. There is a difference between living and being alive. Some never realize that.

Someone I know, who is much older than me, hides behind a mask and thinks that pretending you are happy makes you happy. It is okay if her smile is forced because it is plastic anyway. The little things we do to convince ourselves that we are okay, that life is okay – we are only lying to ourselves. I look at this woman and I think that if she smiled, if she really smiled, she wouldn’t even recognize the sensation. It makes me sad. How much do you have to lie to yourself to make what you do, what you have done, okay in your mind? Does it ever become okay?

I feel very philosophical tonight, when I should really be feeling studious. I am being bad. Really bad. I am really good at procrastinating, though.

It is too quiet in here. I think I might turn up the music and have a little dance party all by myself. Those are the best.